


Let Us Speak of a Letter

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Depression, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Grantaire is kind of fucked up, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, It gets called out, M/M, Magical Realism, Multi, Panic Attacks, Sexist Language, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1531943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inexplicably, a fourteen year old Grantaire wakes up on the streets of Paris with no idea how or why. Nor, as it happens, do Les Amis de l'ABC, but they'll do their best to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer here.
> 
> So, warnings. Mentions/allusions to emotional child abuse, references to underaged drinking, lots of depression/anxious thinking, potentially triggering descriptions of mental illness from PoV character (including a slur). In future chapters, teenage Grantaire says some sexist/homophobic things but is called out on them? The point, mostly, is that R's headspace is kind of a mess. 
> 
> Vaguely inspired by [Sclez](http://www.http://sclez.tumblr.com/) and [Ryssa's](http://www.itserennotjaeger.tumblr.com/) deaged R.
> 
> Come say hello or ask questions on [my tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com)!

The world slowly, coldly slips into focus, and Grantaire blinks a little dazedly, shivering. It takes his brain a moment to catch up with his body as he shivers again, not quite knowing why he's so cold - it's June, he thinks - or why he's not in bed.

It gets worse when he blinks again and sits up. Because he's in an alleyway, stones cold beneath him, and he doesn't recognize the street. Shuddering, he hunches into his hoodie a little more, trying not to panic. He's fine. He probably just fell asleep in a weirdly cold alley after getting a little too drunk, must have somehow convinced someone to give him something to drink. His parents will be furious.

Grantaire stumbles to his feet and, oh, shit, these jeans are way too long on him. He'd hardly noticed with the sweatshirt, since he liked them baggy anyway (his father despised it), but these were way too big. What the fuck? Tentatively, he shuffles his way to the mouth of the alley and peers around, brow furrowing until it suddenly clicks, brain compiling tiny hints and clues.

He's in _Paris_. He doesn't know why or how, because he lives too far away to have gotten here on a whim and it's too cold and the greenery is dampened with winter, and he's in _Paris_. He is definitely dead, and lost, and maybe kind of freaking out just a little because he has no idea how he got here or how he got these clothes that are too big and what the fuck.

To make matters worse, a cellphone goes off in his pocket. Grantaire does not have a cellphone. Eyes wide, he dazedly fishes it out of his pocket and _shit_ , he's never seen anything like this. It has to be really, really, really expensive and someone's calling it and shit, did he steal someone's ridiculously high tech top of the line cell phone? He is so, so fucked. Freezing in terror, he stares blankly at it until the call stops. Then another comes in, then another.

Okay, he decides. Okay. Maybe he can pretend he just found it and give it back to someone and then he can run away before they realize he's a kid in Paris on his own and that he woke up with it in his pocket. Warily, he obeys the instruction on the screen and answers it, gingerly holding it up to his ear.

"- Dude! What the fuck, you haven't been picking up, you can't just _do_ that!" The caller's voice is big, and loud, and rumbling, and Grantaire bites his lip.

"Um. Sorry, I'm not your friend, I just kind of found this phone?" he offers, shuffling from foot to foot in his tiny, cold alley.

The caller pauses. "Fuck. Shit. Look, did you see a guy around? Possibly really drunk?"

"Uh, no," he replies, and at least that's honest. "There's no one here."

Another swear. "Okay. Where’d you find it?”

"I'm over on..." He has to squint to read the street signs, but relays the location.

“At least that’s close. Probably a good sign,” the caller says, with a mixture of relief and concern. “Listen, could you do me a huge favor and drop the phone off at the Café Musain, or something?"

"I have no idea where that is," he admits, which is also truthful. It could be on the other side of Paris, for all he knows. He has a feeling his life will get much easier once he gets rid of the phone.

The caller stops again. "It’s just around the corner. It'll take five minutes, I can meet you there - please? It's two blocks north and a block east of you, hard to miss."

Grantaire considers, but at least then maybe he'll be able to find a metro station or a payphone or something and can call his mother to grovel and his parents are going to be so _furious_. "Yeah. Okay. But you'd better not be some creepy jackass."

There's a roar of laughter at that. "Oh, he'd like you. Don't worry, it's a very public place. Just ask for Les Amis."

"That doesn't sound intimidating," Grantaire mumbles, and immediately regrets it, because fuck, he just wants to get rid of the phone, not make these people remember the weird kid who probably stole it and fuck, but there's only another round of laughter before they hang up.

He feels like he should be more excited to be in Paris without parental supervision, but he doesn't have any clothes of his own and probably nothing but the stolen phone and he's so fucked. But he trots down the streets as told after taking a moment to orient himself and roll up the jeans, and it's pretty, if cold.

The door to the Musain pushes open easily, and he pokes his head in, smiling nervously at one of the women up front, whose hijab is a delicate shade of lavender. "Uh, hey, I'm looking for.... Les Amis?"

She snorts, but it sounds affectionate, and points to a staircase in the back. "Up there, honey, you can't miss them."

Grantaire thanks her and heads up the stairs, briefly debating throwing the phone in the door at the top and running, but instead knocking hesitantly, then slipping in, holding the phone up as a preemptive peace offering. "Uh, hi, I'm here to give this back."

Even as his eyes are flicking from person to person, taking in flashes - terrible fashion sense, glasses, cane, scraped elbow, bruised knuckles, bright eyes, scuffed shoes, _curls_ \- he's debating setting the phone down and backing out of the room.

Bruised Knuckles' worried frown splits into a brief grin and Grantaire guesses he was the caller, confirmed a moment later. "Hey, thanks, kid. You sure you didn't see anyone around?"

Carefully putting down the very, very expensive looking phone, he shakes his head. "Nah. I just kinda found it?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Bright Eyes says, and Curls snorts a touch derisively, but is ignored, something thoughtful and surprised to the darker haired man's brows. "Thank you for bringing it back. What's your name?"

Grantaire feels like there's a trap just out of sight, edges back another fraction of a centimeter, slowly answering. "R's cool."

Glasses' eyes sharpen on him, intent and intense, and Grantaire's heart starts hammering staccato against his chest. His words, when he speaks, are delicate, but Grantaire can barely hear them. "Would that, per chance, be a pun on Grantaire?"

The rest of them jump, looking wildly at Glasses, but Grantaire only notices it distantly, feels like his heart's in his throat and his body is trying to crawl out of his skin, he can't breathe, he's going to die if they don't kill him, and the world is spinning.

He backs up, feels his back hit the door frame, and his spine goes rigid.

"Look, I don't... I don't know how you know that or anything, okay?" he says, shaky, feeling blurry, like he's speaking through cotton and looking through semi-opaque glass and he thinks he might be shivering. "I just... look, I didn't mean to, I just woke up and it was in my pocket and I don't know, I didn't take it, I fucking swear, I don't even know how I got here, it's not like I live in Paris, and it's the middle of June but I didn't mean to go to Paris, I can't afford that, but I mean, I just... I just woke up in the alley and the phone went off and it's probably, shit, it's probably really expensive, and look, I didn't mean to take it, I don't, I..."

He's rambling. Everything always gets worse when he rambles. He's having another one of those episodes and he feels so out of his head even though his skin is buzzing like someone ran wires underneath, and he's breathing, but it's so fast and shallow it never reaches his lungs and, oh, this must be how people can drown in an inch of water and there are spots dancing in his eyes.

"Move, Enjolras, he's having a panic attack," says someone, distantly, and one of them is kneeling in front of him and he jerks violently at the touch, but the man just holds up his hands, soothing and assuring. "Hey. Hey, R, hey. You're going to be alright, just try to breathe. The symptoms are all normal, you aren't dying, it's just your system reacting, it’ll calm back down. Breathe, deep breath. And hold it. Another."

Shit, he probably shouldn't be listening to this person, whoever he is, but it's helping, and Grantaire can slowly feel the pressure around his chest let up, his head clearing slowly. He's still gasping raggedly when he can see properly again, a little confused as to how he's sitting slumped against the doorway, knees curled against his chest and hands fisted painfully in his hair. He removes them, slowly, blinking distantly at how his hands shake and tremble violently. There's a noise and he drags his attention back to the real world.

Remembering where he is, he pales, flinching back against the wall and swearing mentally again. Fuck, fuck, he's just made it a million times worse.

But cane guy is still crouching there, waiting until Grantaire looks at him. "It's alright, R. It's alright. It was just a panic attack. Have you had those before?"

Reluctantly, wondering the fuck a panic attack even _means_ , he nods.

"We'll get you something to drink and to eat," he promises, and, wow, he actually sounds like he means it. "I'm Joly."

"Don’t have to. Can't pay you," Grantaire gasps, voice rasping and trembling, quavering almost.

"You don't have to. We didn't mean to startle you," the man - Joly - says, still not touching him. "It's fine, I promise. Okay? Now. A few minutes ago, you said something about not knowing how you got here?"

 

 

Joly still isn't sure what to make of R. They've been exchanging looks all around when the teenager isn't paying attention, everyone desperately trying to scramble it into some sort of logical _sense_. He thinks Bossuet's money is on the kid being one of Grantaire's cousins or something and that Combeferre might seriously be entertaining the idea that he's actually Grantaire, while Feuilly doesn't seem entirely sure it's not all a very strange coincidence and Bahorel's studying him with a very peculiar expression.

But Joly's mostly just been watching R. He's mulling it over, the flinch back against the wall, the rush of guilt and anxiety over the panic attack, the wince when he'd nodded a response to Joly's question. Joly offers him a hand up when he’s made it back to his feet, but R just shakes his head and shakily hauls himself up, trying hard not to look like he's still trembling and panicking as he sits, eyeing the door. Joly sits beside him, and the rest of them seem frozen until Courfeyrac, bless him, gently redirects them because R looks uncomfortable at the scrutiny, ducking his head and fidgeting with his sleeves.

He's still hunched in and pale when Bossuet walks back in with a sandwich and a tea, and he's careful to avoid touching the man when he accepts them uncertainly. In fact, Joly notices - and he only does because Grantaire does this sometimes, deftly avoids letting people touch him - R seems to lean away from anything that could possibly end in a touch, leaning this way and that. But it's not quite a flinch, like he realizes he's not about to be hurt, just like he doesn't know what to do with the possibility of it, uncomfortable and concerned.

By now, Joly is almost certainly convinced that R is Grantaire and trying to dredge up everything Musichetta’s mentioned or he’s seen. The teenager's mouth curls up in a suppressed smile at one of Enjolras' truly terrible puns, and Joly wonders how they hell one of his best friends is now a teenager.

But it's so strange, because Grantaire has never been this still or silent. He's still moving, little fidgets here and there as he eats his sandwich almost tentatively in the back corner, fingers drumming and never quite daring to touch the table until he notices and curls his hand into a fist, and there’s the splash of a darker birthmark against his dark skin along his fingers, and his eyes flick as they speak, tracking each murmur of conversation and noise.

Joly gently catches his attention, and Grantaire looks over in an instant, curiously attentive but without the usual smile. "Are you feeling better, now?"

"Yes, thank you," he says, formal and polite. "I appreciate it."

"Not at all! I'm glad to hear it; you're looking better," he replies cheerfully. "Are you feeling up to talking?"

Grantaire nods, dark eyes still studying Joly, and there's a wary watchfulness there, something a little like a cornered cat. If Courfeyrac is a kitten whose easy grace hasn't quite settled into that of a mouser, Grantaire is a kitten turned out on the gutter who hasn't decided whether to bite or to purr.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Joly asks, careful not to lean into his personal space. He should be concerned, and a little part of his brain is panicking because memory loss is bad, it's very bad, should they take him to the hospital? But he's more worried about how Grantaire is now - fourteen, fifteen, maybe? Could be thirteen, but that might just be traces of baby fat. He's a teenager and this doesn't _happen_.

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, which explains the chapping, worrying it a moment before he drops it suddenly, like it's a bad habit he's trying to quit. For a long moment, he's quiet, enough that Joly's starting to get anxious, but then he looks like he's rolling the words around in his mouth before he speaks. "... It's... June? The fourth, so I'm not sure why it's so cold. The last thing I remember was going to bed last night, back home. I don't remember waking up, or anything, or getting to Paris. That is, I woke up here, in the alley, in clothes that're too big for me, and, um, your friend's phone in the pocket. I'm sorry, I don't remember how it got there, I don't know-"

He's working himself up into a panic again, face red, and Joly stops him. "I don't think you took it, don't worry. Okay. Well. You don't remember anything else? Did anything seem familiar to you?"

Grantaire shakes his head again, looking unsure at Joly's reassurance and he is quiet for another long moment before speaking again, softly. "No? I mean, the buildings, it's how I knew I was in Paris, but...”

"Alright," Joly says, in his most reassuring tone. "We'll help you figure this out. Can you tell me today's date, in full?"

Grantaire eyes him strangely, but seems to have an inkling of what he might be hinting at as he shakes just a little, quietly giving a date with confidence - and sure enough, it's in the start of June, fifteen years ago. Which would make him... fourteen, yes.

Joly tries his best not to react to that, because he knows Grantaire's life is currently falling apart (vaguely, he's always been frustratingly reticent with details), but the teenager seems to see it.

"... It's not, is it?" he asks, even quieter. And where the Grantaire that Joly knows would explode in rambling here, talking and picking through the details and ranting about how he feels in flourishes of obscure references, this one just seems to be drawing in like he's imploding even though he’s barely moved, his eyes flickering around the room as his mind races until he takes in a slow, soft breath, and meets Joly's eyes as steadily as he can.

"No, it isn't," Joly says gently, and follows it with the actual date, pulling out his phone for proof, and he wants to hug him, desperately, but he already knows it wouldn't be welcome. He can't bear this. "Michel, sweetheart, I know it's hard to believe, but we're your friends - we've known you for four years, and we'll help figure this out."

Grantaire lets out a thin, strangled noise that has all of them looking over.

"Joly, R, is everything alright?" Combeferre asks, and he shares the subtlest of looks with Joly.

"Grantaire is fourteen, and alone, and in Paris, and has no idea who we are, fifteen years in the future," Joly says, matter of factly and dryly. "And he's just had a panic attack after being outside in the cold for who knows how long. No, everything is not alright."

"Joly," Enjolras says, warningly, "This isn't the time for jokes."

Joly just meets his eyes, as steadily as he can. "I'm not joking, Enjolras."

"This is Grantaire?" he asks, then, in a very controlled voice, a strange look on his pretty features, and Joly can’t even imagine what he’s thinking, now that his lover’s been turned fourteen and so soon after they _finally_ , painfully slowly got their shit together, and R stills abruptly under their scrutiny.

"Of course it is," Bossuet and, surprisingly, Combeferre say at the same time, which makes Enjolras’ hands fist on the table, and R blinks.

"Isn't anyone else skeptical? Like, this sort of thing doesn't actually happen," Courfeyrac says, eyeing Combeferre. There are a breakout of theories and conversations, as usual, but Joly just watches Grantaire again, his eyes watching them all almost absently, brow faintly furrowed.

Bossuet offers Grantaire a smile, coming close enough to speak too softly for the rest to hear. "Hey, Michel, since you're in Paris again, do you want to see The Hope – you know, the statue – if we have time? You wanted to get another look since you were here with your family, right?"

And Joly suddenly loves the other man all the more for asking and wishes he'd thought of it first. He remembers, now, the night when Grantaire had told them about the first time he'd been to Paris and then gotten sheepish and mumbled something about never mentioning it (because, they realized, he hadn't believed he was allowed to love art, back then).

Grantaire hesitates for a second, and he studies Bossuet for a moment, and doesn't say anything, but Joly can see the flicker of a smile at his mouth even with as shell shocked as he is. "I guess."

He doesn’t seem inclined to say anything more, though, returning his attention to the babble of theory and debate. After a long several minutes, he straightens a little, waiting patiently, and Enjolras, noticing surprisingly quickly, blinks at him, which makes the others fall silent. Joly can't help being amused even though this isn't really funny, but he still hides a smile.

"... Actually, this kind of makes sense," Grantaire says, a little stilted. "I went to sleep at home in June, and woke up in Paris in the winter. It explains all the strange cars and the really advanced looking phones, and it's too much trouble to set up as a prank, let alone the kidnapping charges. The names are the same, and it explains why my clothes don't fit and why I had the phone."

It's very succinct, for Grantaire, and Joly realizes, suddenly, why he keeps going quiet. He isn't rambling his way through multiple, intersecting rings of association, he's trying to think through them until he can form a simple, straightforward sentence. Everything about him feels muted, constrained, and even though he seems a perfect example of a child, it breaks Joly's heart.

"So it does," Combeferre agrees, adjusting his glasses, and Grantaire seems to ease a little at that, just a touch, but he also looks tired and overwhelmed - fingers twitching against his thigh, foot not quite tapping - he's anxious. "I think we'll need to disperse to do some research, so we can figure out what's happened. R, is there anyone you'd prefer to stay with, so that you aren't stuck in a strange apartment with suspicious neighbors?"

Grantaire worries his lip, a little, but his protest is a little more vehement this time, though polite. "I can't just impose like that on someone."

"Then we'll rotate," Joly offers cheerfully, because he's anticipated this, and even as he smiles, he dares any of them to object silently. He knows that, right now, Grantaire needs quiet, that this all is still too much even if he’s not panicking as badly, and the best thing to do would be to take him home and distract him, and _why is Musichetta out of the country right now_. "That way you get a change of scenery, no one has to rearrange their schedules, and it's not a problem. Would you like to stay with us tonight, R?"

Very slowly, Grantaire nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

"Then it's settled!" he says cheerfully, and smiles quietly at Enjolras while they sweep out of the room, trying to convey that it will be alright. Somehow.

 

 

He can tell that he's going to have to deal with a mountain of anxiety when they get home, but Bossuet can't even bring himself to feel regretful about it. He's concerned, too, and Joly, though keeping up his usual cheerful demeanor, is strung up with tension. And normally, he would know just how to cheer both of them up.

Except this time, Grantaire is a teenager. Bossuet can still see the outlines of their Grantaire in him - the too casual slouch, the masterful command of his fleeting facial expressions, the way he fidgets for something, the way he tilts his head up to catch a glimpse of some architectural line that he likes. And all at the same time, he is too quiet, too muted, and he is altogether too calm on the surface - it's disconcerting. He looks at them, too, with eyes that are almost hollow.

It is cliché, but Bossuet doesn't have any other word for it. Even at his darkest, Grantaire's eyes are cuttingly intelligent and full of emotion - brimming with it, even when he wishes they wouldn't. Especially, his mind prompts, when he's looking at Enjolras, who had looked like he’d been hit in the face with ice cold water when they left. But R - there has to be a better way to distinguish them - seems like he's looking at the world from behind a trick mirror. Most of his ugliness, when he's older, comes from the anguish and the hopelessness of what he sees as the reality of the world, but here, like this, he just looks carefully blank.

Bossuet desperately wishes that Musichetta were here - she's out of the country for a couple more days and she can't call - because they could use her help, seeing as how she’s Grantaire’s oldest friend. This part, though, will be easy enough, honestly. For now, he and Joly can offer somewhere quiet and calm with fewer people, and answer questions, and give him a place to sleep when he needs it.

And Grantaire probably does. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his hoodie and he's doing that peculiar thing again, where his eyes are tracking every motion and movement. It's almost adorable, the way his mouth drops a little every time he sees a flashy car or some new technology, or, honestly, just Paris itself. But it has to be overwhelming him, and by the time Bossuet opens the door to the apartment, Grantaire looks frazzled and overexposed.

"Sorry, it's not very exciting," he says, as brightly as he can manage, taking off his shoes by the door, Joly locking the door as Grantaire looks around, curious.

He smiles, and it's the first real one that Bossuet's seen since he showed up this morning. It makes sense, since Grantaire had helped them put the living room together, but it's still nice to see the pleased look on his face.

"No, I like it," he says, and it's strangely soft at the same time that there's that note of genuine enthusiasm. It's like something has switched, and Bossuet knows what it is, that Grantaire has decided that he likes them. He grins, broad and wide, and there's a little gap between two of his teeth. "It's pretty cool."

"We're glad you approve," Joly says, upbeat, and he lights up, looking over to share a smile with Bossuet, visibly relieved. "Feel free to take a look, if you want, I'm going to go air out some of the linens."

Amused, he laughs and waves Joly off, but nods when Grantaire glances over in a silent request for permission. Bossuet sits in one of the comfortable chairs and makes at least half of an attempt to be subtle as he watches.

At first, Grantaire is a little hesitant, but it fades quickly. There's real curiosity in his face as he examines the bookshelf and the photographs on their walls, stocking feet silent on the floor as he moves around. He's definitely relaxed now, posture easing into a more usual slouch, a little of the lithe, trained grace that Bossuet's gotten used to in the lines of his limbs.

"... Is this me?" Grantaire asks, pausing in front of a group photograph, tilting his head a little as though he can't fathom why his future-self would be squished between Joly and Bahorel with Éponine leaning over his shoulder.

Bossuet nods. "Yeah. That was taken... last year? It was a good party - we were celebrating a successful protest."

"Protest?" Grantaire looks confused and intrigued. He sits on the couch carefully, then sprawls out more. "What exactly do you guys do, anyway?"

Part of Bossuet wants to change the subject, to brush it off, but he's not sure which would be worse, so he answers. "We're a social justice group. We fight for social change for everyone who's hurt by the system."

Grantaire looks thoughtful and intrigued, half curled up on the couch now. "Like racism and shit? And poverty?"

"Like those," Bossuet agrees, remembering how long it had taken for Grantaire to come out to them and wondering if he should say anything - he decides not to.

"I guess that's pretty cool," the teenager allows, suddenly casual and lazy, and this is all so strange. "Does it actually help people?"

"It does," he says. "It's slow, but every little bit helps change things."

"And I help?"

"And you help." Enjolras will die to see this, Grantaire before circumstance beat idealism out of him. But maybe not, because Enjolras looked like the world had spun off its axis when he realized. Even though what he told Grantaire isn’t quite what the teenager’s probably thinking, Bossuet can't regret it, because R has this surprised smile on his face, like he's pleased.

There's not much more to say after that, because R is visibly tired, and winds up cuddling Joly's cat in his lap, and it's peaceful. For the rest of the day, he alternates between contemplative silence and mouthiness, pushing their limits, and Bossuet would be more annoyed if he didn't realize that it was, in its own strange way, a sign of trust, of wanting to like them.

And it's not as though it lasts very long after they eat, because for all his protests, Grantaire is tangled up in a nest of blankets on the couch, cuddling the cat again and letting out tiny little sounds in his sleep. Joly watches him for a long minute, tired and wrecked, his brows drawn in a thoughtful pinch, until Bossuet wraps his arms around him.

"Okay?" he asks, and Joly just shakes his head, turning to rest his forehead against Bossuet's shoulder.

"This is so painful," he sighs, fingers running up Bossuet's spine. "He's so scared of everything and I just wish I could hug him but he'd hate that. It’s so hard to make him really smile. And we're no closer to figuring out how or why."

"I know," he says, holding Joly a little closer and wishing once again that Musichetta were here. "But we'll figure it out, and, besides, at least we know that he's safe."

Joly huffs a discontented, disapproving sound. "He thinks he'll get in trouble if he taps his fingers, Lesgle."

"I know," he says again, even though it's not enough. He's been paying just as much attention, can see every flinch and flicker in R's face. They both know, better than the others, the signs of his impending rants and rambles, and the way his fingers twitch constantly for something, and this is disconcerting. But Joly already knows he understands, so Bossuet taps under his chin. "This just means that you get a chance to fuss over him."

That makes Joly crack a smile. "He's a terror, I can tell. And he's going to drive Enjolras right up onto the ceiling tomorrow, and happily."

"You're going to encourage him, aren't you?" Bossuet asks with a groan. "He'll go back to being the grand R again, except he'll be worse because you'll have been prodding him to mischief and laughing at his bad, outdated teenager jokes."

There, Joly's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Only perhaps. You have to admit, it's going to be funny to see their faces when they get smacked with his sass."

"He really is sassy, isn't he?" Bossuet chuckles. "C'mon, let's go stay out of trouble, you can fret over him tomorrow."

Joly follows him willingly back to their bedroom, but he's distracted. Bossuet can't blame him, because he's still turning things over in his head and keeping half an ear out for signs of stirring. He doesn't know when R's insomnia set in, and he's not sure what's going through his head right now.

Bossuet has always had bad luck, but his family is and was wonderful. He's the same age as Grantaire, more or less, and he remembers being fourteen. He remembers that, even with the pressure on his career choices and everything else, his family showered him with affection and love, even when he always seemed to have things go badly. He remembers the unquestioned privilege he'd had then, and no doubt Grantaire has it too, but Bossuet would never have stopped to question someone buying him food if he'd shown up hungry and scared and alone and shaken. He knows he wouldn't have been so uncertain about touching or have felt the need to keep every movement so carefully controlled.

It's a disconcerting thought, and it makes him resolve to call his parents in the morning. Just because.

 

 

The blurry blue numbers on the player display are glowing a steady four-oh-seven in the morning when Grantaire blinks awake. It takes him just a few moments to remember where he is and why, or as much of a why as there can be in a situation like this. His thoughts are already off and running again, and there's no way he'll get any more sleep, so he shifts just a little, curling deeper into the blankets piled on top of him.

Scratching behind the cat's ears, where it's curled up by his knees, he wonders how well they must know him, to know that he sleeps better with the heavy weight of too many blankets pressing him down. That they know him well is pretty clear, actually, he has to admit - there's a strange amusement or fondness to their expressions at the worst and most obnoxious of his little habits, and Joly and Bossuet both seem to know what to say.

For whatever reason, it's a little disconcerting. Probably not that strange, but fuck, Grantaire isn't really used to people who know him well. But they can't know him that well, because... well. Because.

Because if they did, why would they be friends with him? He has no idea what not-him is like, at all, if he's changed that much. There's no rosary around his neck or in his pockets or anything, and it's not like Grantaire misses it or anything, fuck, but when did he stop carrying it? Did older him get rid of it because the nagging doubts finally capsized his faith or because it reminded him too much of his parents?

Or maybe he really has changed, Grantaire doesn't know. He wonders what he does, here. Other than, apparently, help with a social change group, which is... which is really actually pretty cool. And for the most part all the people seemed pretty cool too. Except, well. Except that, again, they can't know him that well, or maybe he's finally stopped being a fuck up, finally stopped wanting to die.

This isn't getting him anywhere but short of breath, so he sighs and buries his face in the pillow. Fuck. _Fuck_. He tries to sort it out, but he doesn't know enough of anything. It even takes him three counts to figure out how many of them there were. And he still doesn't know why he's here. It's so strange, so tiring. He doesn't know what to do.

So he ends up staring quietly at the ceiling until faint light starts to spill through the windows, and he makes himself get up, quietly apologizing to the huffy and offended cat. Grantaire silently folds up the sheets and the blankets and wonders what more he should do, if he ought to make breakfast or wait or if it would be okay to take a book off the shelf. But he doesn't know, so he just sits quietly and lets his mind wander. He doesn't realize that he's tapping out a tangled pattern with his fingers right away and bites his lip hard when he realizes he has been. Fidgeting helps keep him focused but he's not supposed to, and this all just _sucks_.

He makes a face, but then the door down the hall cracks open and Joly wanders out, mussy haired and blurry eyed, without the cane but with one hand ghosting along the wall almost absently.

When he sees Grantaire, he grins, too bright for someone still half asleep. "Hello, R. Coffee? Or tea? Something else?"

"Um. Whatever would be most convenient," he replies, automatically, folding his hands tightly in his lap. "Thank you, for letting me stay last night."

Joly just smiles wider and shrugs an easy shrug, like he's letting the weight of anything roll off his back. "You're more than welcome. You always are, here, it's a house rule, and we've crashed at your place, before. Breakfast?"

"Please? And, uh, no offense, but you don't really know _me_ ," Grantaire says, following him into the kitchen.

"Alright, then, we know older you well enough to extend the same hospitality to younger you," Joly says, cheerfully, putting on the kettle and getting two glasses of water. "And older you can be _much_ grumpier in the mornings."

Grantaire doesn't know what to say to that, so he just half smiles and watches Joly bustle around the kitchen, humming softly. It's quiet and domestic and peaceful, and he likes this. It's... well, it's just nice, really.

Except for the fact that he's out of place and out of time and feels so fucking lost and his head is killing him. He grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes and tries not to squint, but Joly catches it all the same, sharp eyed.

"Headache?" he asks, and frowns just a little when Grantaire nods. "Do you know what might be causing it, or is it probably a side effect?"

He's going to have to be honest.

"... Might be 'cause I haven't had anything to drink," he mutters, ducking his head, because he's _already_ going to let them down, plucking at his fingertips. "Or it could be a side effect. Or just not enough water, but I'm usually pretty good about that."

Joly doesn't say anything for a moment, just rustles through the cabinet. Strangely, when Grantaire risks a glance, Joly doesn't look disappointed, only thoughtful, even if there's something... sad to his face. He turns back, setting a bottle and a shotglass on the counter. "Alright. If it's alcohol, do you know how much you'll need to take the edge off?"

"What?" Grantaire blinks at him, stares. "No, seriously, _what_?"

"I doubt it's too bad, since you're still fairly young, but alcohol does create a physical dependence. I'd like for you not to drink, but it's a discussion we need to have when you aren't experiencing symptoms," Joly says, evenly and gently. "It's also the easiest factor to eliminate. If taking the edge off doesn't work, then it's not something we need to talk about stopping, since there won't be effects, and you don't seem to be dehydrated, so we can work on figuring out what's causing it. I doubt it's any of older you's medications, because he says he starts feeling sick if he misses a dose for too long."

R stares at him for another moment longer, not entirely sure what to say to that, too many thoughts ricocheting around his brain for him to try to make them coherent, to condense them, and so he ends up with a slightly pathetic, "... I take medications? Am I sick? And, um, a couple shots should do it."

Joly pours him a shot and sets it on the counter, offering Grantaire a smile. "You aren't sick in the way you're thinking, no. Older you has medication for depression and anxiety. You're not just making things up in your head, R. All the things swirling around in your brain all the time that you second guess about aren't things most people have to worry about, and it's not your fault. They're real, diagnosable problems - trust me, I'm a doctor! - and older you is getting treatment for them because it doesn't have to be this hard all the time."

He takes the shot with a grimace, almost mechanically, while he processes Joly's words, softened a little by the gentle interjection of humor, but it's still all too much, to hear that. To have it confirmed that he's weak, that he's _crazy_ , that he's fucked up and sick and worthless and not good enough and _bad_ , and then to be told in the same breath that it's none of those things, like it's not something he should be ashamed of, is too much. He feels the prick of tears a moment before he starts sobbing, covering his face with his hands, mortified.

"Oh, Michel," Joly murmurs, moving around the counter and wrapping his arms around Grantaire. This is weird, this is strange, and he should hate it or at least should pull back so he doesn't get _used_ to it, but it feels too good and he can't help it, can't stop himself from melting into the gentle embrace.

His sobs choke when Bossuet comes out, but the tall, dark skinned man doesn't even hesitate, just comes and wraps himself up around them, and Grantaire just can't seem to stop crying. Eventually, though, he does, sniffling and daring them to say anything with a fierce. But they just go back to work in the kitchen, bantering easily while Grantaire sips his water, and after enough time has passed, Joly looks over.

"Headache?" he asks, as though breaking down in tears was perfectly normal and acceptable.

Grantaire tries for a smile and isn't quite sure he manages one. "Still there.”

"Not even the edge off?”

He shakes his head, quietly.

“I’ll get you some painkillers, then, and we’ll see if those help, and ask Combeferre for a second opinion if they don’t," Joly says, cheerfully, as though he’s only a little concerned about Grantaire’s headache, not even worried about the drinking. "Now, let's have breakfast! We're supposed to meet up in a few hours and I, for one, am not going to deal with serious Enjolras without something in my stomach."

He doesn't even know which ones Combeferre and Enjolras are, but Bossuet snorts in amusement, and Grantaire finds himself smiling, slipping down from his chair to offer his help.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan is more than a little curious, Grantaire has a conversation he really doesn't want to have, and Bahorel just wonders when the hell he got so good at reading people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer.
> 
> So, I got this chapter up surprisingly quickly, though it's a little shorter than usual, and hopefully I can keep it up. Thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, and for reading! 
> 
> Honestly, the same warnings as before tend to apply.
> 
> Please feel free to come ask questions, say hi, or just chat over on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com)!

When they do finally head out, Grantaire is bundled up in one of Joly's coats that still doesn't quite fit right, but at least it leaves him less cold than the day before, and for some reason the hat he has jammed on over his riot of curls makes Bossuet and Joly share a grin. He really does like them, though, and can't keep himself from laughing all the way back to the Musain, which is apparently their favorite meeting place.

He can't quite hesitate at the top of the stairs, but he feels the swell of panic against his breastbone for a moment before stepping in. It seems like most of them are there, so he shifts restlessly and gives a little, faux nonchalant half-wave. He'd noted it abstractly last time, but now that he's calmer, it hits him how weirdly _diverse_ this group is - he's never seen so many not-normal people in one place. It feels less like a social group and more like a revolution and it makes him want to cry or swear or grin wide enough to split his face. But he settles on a "Hey."

"R," Bright Eyes greets cheerfully, lifting his hand from Curls' shoulder and trotting over, offering out his hand. He's good looking, tanned, with a cattish grace and sharp facial features, dressed casually in jeans and a graphic t-shirt, and his dark hair falls in artful waves, but Grantaire was right the first time - his eyes, brown and warm and friendly, are his most notable feature. "Sorry we skipped the introductions last time. I'm Courfeyrac."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Grantaire says, and he has to try not to smile when Courfeyrac's nose scrunches at the use of "vous."

"No, really, "tu" is fine with us," he says, waving a hand airily. "We're all citizens here! Or something. Okay, though, so, names? You want 'em?"

Grantaire can't help but like him, and he nods. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

“Great!” He beams, face lit up with the force of his smile and it’s hard not to feel more at ease with Courfeyrac there, turning to survey the group as though he’s giving Grantaire a tour more than anything, or directing a strange choir.

"This," Courfeyrac says, sweeping an arm over to Glasses, who's tall and most likely Indian, with fucking awesome tattoos peeking out from his rolled up sleeves and who's sitting in a wheelchair that he only distantly noticed yesterday, "is Combeferre, our guide and resident science person, absolutely the coolest."

Combeferre smiles kindly at Grantaire, who smiles back a little shyly, half-reminded of his father’s severity, but Courfeyrac is moving on, so quickly that all Grantaire can do is nod or wave.

"Jehan, our resident poet and historian," turns out to be Bad Fashion Sense, the ends of his dark hair bleached and dyed shades of blue and purple, wearing clunky boots and a t-shirt with a Transformers-esque giant robot on it, which isn’t half as bad as the strange and horribly outdated ensemble of the day before, and who blushes when Grantaire looks over at him, waving shyly.

"Feuilly, man of the people and maker of excellent pastas." Scuffed Shoes, this time, looking perpetually exhausted, dark hair almost entirely hidden under a hat that Grantaire thinks is awesome, broad and muscled in a lanky way, his fingers smeared a little with paint as he waves as well.

"Bahorel, who is probably going to be your best friend again in about two minutes." That makes Bruised Knuckles laugh, deep and low. His skin tone is a little darker than Grantaire's and his hair is shaved off on the sides, and he's built like a boxer, tattoos winding over his arms. Yeah, he's pretty sure they'll get along.

"Marius Pontmercy, my roommate who is in the process of joining our revolutionary adventures," is a gawky, handsome man who looks like he might start flailing at that, and Grantaire has to hide another smile.

Courfeyrac flourishes a hand at Curls last, his keen eyes still trained on Grantaire's face even as he grins, and he decides there and then not to underestimate him, no matter how friendly he seems. "And this is our fearless leader, Enjolras."

Just looking at him makes Grantaire want to reach for a sketchpad. He's lovely, with delicate facial features and an even skin tone, mouth full and pink, wheat-golden blond hair curling gently around his face and shoulders, and he looks like something straight out of an art textbook. And his eyes are a stormy blue-grey, intent and strangely sad even as they're lit up with a spark of fierceness and dedication.

And shit, he's staring too much. Blushing, Grantaire looks briefly at his too-loose shoes, vaguely mortified, and waves again, unsure of what to do. He feels so out of place here, almost like he’s some sort of freaky specimen in a museum display, even though their looks are all friendly enough. He’s just acutely aware that he’s so far out of the loop he’s on another thread entirely.

"Uh, hi. I guess you all already know who I am, and I'm pretty sure there's not a social protocol for this. R or Grantaire is okay, though, I guess?" he says, finally, because he has to do something, and fights the urge to fidget.

He’s not sure whether to be flattered or disconcerted by the smiles he receives in return, so he settles for looking them over again. They’re strange and new, but they seem so very close knit, like so much more than some sort of social club. There’s an easy familiarity that takes him a moment to place, in the way that they angle towards one another or how even with Bahorel’s sprawled feet there’s enough room between tables for Combeferre’s wheelchair, and how there’s a set of chairs left open at the back table waiting to be filled, the way they seem to glance between themselves as though communicating in a way that Grantaire just can’t read. In spite of himself and knowing that he must be so peripheral, he feels a burst of hope that eases the knot in his chest.

 

 

Jehan thinks it's utterly endearing how Joly and Bossuet flank Grantaire like bodyguards and has to hide a smile at the way they seem to be screaming silently at the rest of them to be _gentle_ , to be _careful_ , as though Grantaire is something easily broken. Joly turns to pull Combeferre aside, Bossuet redirecting Courfeyrac back to managing Enjolras while he leads Grantaire back to their end of the room.

"Jehan!" he greets with his usual cheer, dropping down in one of the chairs and gesturing for Grantaire to do the same, leaving only the one in the back corner, which makes the teenager’s shoulders come down ever so slightly. "How are you today, my friend?"

"Well, thank you, and making good progress on my poetry paper," he says, with a smile at Bossuet, offering Grantaire a hand after. "Good morning."

"Good morning," R replies, utterly polite and unusually subdued as he takes Jehan's hand briefly, fingers and hands lacking the familiar calluses and scattering of scars. After a quiet moment, he smiles just a touch, genuine but not enough to brighten his eyes, vaguely fluttering a hand in the direction of his own curls. "I like the colors."

Jehan beams and blushes at that, because _that's_ the R he knows, the one who wants to set others at ease and make them happy, and he suddenly feels much more certain. He's pleased with his hair, today, the shifting mix of blues and purples that dance on the edges of his swept bangs. "Thank you!"

Grantaire nods a little, looking away again with a darting glance, and Jehan isn't sure if he's feeling awkward or if he's just keeping an eye on Joly and Combeferre, who are engaged in a serious looking conversation, leaned in close to murmur unobtrusively. Probably both, because he'll look over at Jehan or Bossuet occasionally, but he's still watching carefully, with more attention than he’s paying to any of the rest of them. Still, Jehan doesn't find it too hard to draw Grantaire into a somewhat one-sided discussion about Paris, the teenager rarely taking up in a conversational pause even though he must be noticing them, noting over R's shoulder when Joly straightens and slips out of the room and Combeferre leans over to murmur something to Enjolras that makes his eyes widen ever so slightly before his brows furrow just a little.

He's curious, because it's not an expression he sees often, but before Jehan can peer more closely, Courfeyrac is calling the meeting to a semblance of order (they've been off, today, everyone trying hard not to steal concerned and curious glances at Grantaire).

"No one has a good idea of what's happened," Courfeyrac says, even though that was already fairly well established, stealing a paper from Combeferre and looking over it even as he speaks. "Cosette and Eponine are also looking but nothing yet. Which, okay, we'll keep working on figuring that out - and we'll keep you in the loop, of course, R, with what we find. You still okay with rotating around with us?"

"Uh, yeah, that's fine," he says, startled, and Jehan sees his shoulders jump. "Whatever is convenient is fine.”

That word breaks Jehan’s heart – convenient.

"We're working on a schedule," Combeferre tells him, with a hint of a smile, dark eyes as kind as ever. "You're very popular, it seems."

That startles a laugh from Grantaire, and Jehan is struck by the sudden urge to pull him into a hug. They've always understood one another and the dark places their brains go, and he can all but see the transcendent darkness clawing, clinging to Grantaire, though R hides it well. He's just so _quiet_. "If you say so."

"So we do," rumbles Bahorel, with a grin, though he's also watching Grantaire closely. Jehan wishes their friend could see this, see how much they all care, how much they're all worried, even though he's sure that somehow that's the point, that this will resolve in just the right way. "I already called dibs."

"Great, I can figure out what's gossip and what's true," Grantaire says, with a grin in return. He's shifting so subtly, so easily, and Jehan knows exactly what he's doing, what's keeping him so quiet, and he desperately wants to talk to him, to condense their conversations into something that will show this boy how much he is loved and deserves and how loud he can be, how quiet he doesn't _have_ to be.

He settles, instead, on offering him the rest of his pastry as Enjolras, still a little pale - and he looks so tired, shadows under his eyes and a touch of heartbreak in the angle of his brows - takes over the meeting, redirects it back to Les Amis' activities because they still need to take care of business, especially after having spent all afternoon and this morning worrying over Grantaire and his mysterious deaging.

Jehan knows he should pay attention, he really should, because what they do is _important_ and usually he’s happy to contribute, but he wants to see what he's missed, what fragments of Grantaire he can pile together into his mental picture of the man. Amazingly, R is focused on Enjolras entirely, not worshipful or looking for missteps, but listening, hands folded on the table as he does, taking it in, though he must be missing parts of the vocabulary, the discussion.

It's only after a while that his brow starts to crease, and Jehan can see the storm of questions and uncertainties brewing in his face, but Grantaire doesn't break in, doesn't speak up, like he doesn't dare even though he clearly wants to, mouth just starting to curve to speak before he stops himself several times. He takes a scrap piece of paper instead, almost without thinking of it, hunched over with a pencil, still listening to Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Combeferre but still _thinking_ , and Jehan can't help it, he's fascinated. Feuilly keeps shooting Jehan looks even though he’s trying to be subtle, but R's angled so no one can see the paper.

Eventually it opens for discussion, and Jehan leans over a little, unconsciously settling at the familiar patterns of conversation in the background, curious and hopeful as he catches Grantaire's eye with a smile. "What did you think?"

"It was... it was interesting," he says finally, after a long silence, rubbing his thumb over his forearm in another nervous, thoughtful gesture and leaving behind a smear of graphite. "I think the ideas are interesting, but I guess I would need to know more about what you guys do and some of the stuff he was talking about. I got kinda lost?"

"It's disorienting, at first," Jehan admits, nodding thoughtfully. "We've been trying to work on that, on being less... esoteric and jargony, but it's something still to improve."

He shrugs, a little, running his finger of the edge of his paper. "It would be nice to see, people being... you know, less critical of differences. I'd like to see that."

“Oh?” he prompts, leaning forward with interest, and hopes the tell-tale blush isn’t popping back up to show his uncertainty. He smiles, and Grantaire cautiously returns it.

Grantaire nods, but he doesn’t seem to want to pursue it just yet, still looks thoughtful. He’s quiet for a moment, tracing his pencil over lines again, still blocking his paper. “… Yeah. So, uh, what do you do? You mentioned a paper earlier?”

“Mm-hm,” Jehan agrees, letting the other subject drop for the moment. “I’m a poetry graduate student, with an emphasis on history. I’m working on a paper for a conference.”

“That’s cool,” he replies, and it’s deliberately casual, but Jehan can _see_ his eyes light up and brighten with interest, call all but visualize the questions tugging at his tongue.

So he prompts him again, gently. “My adviser certainly thinks so! What about you, what has your attention at the moment?”

“Oh.” He looks surprised to be asked, shrugging his shoulders a little. “Y’know, history stuff, I guess. It’s nothing really interesting or anything. Fuckin’ high school. Is university any better?”

“Mostly!” Jehan tells him with another smile, and he wants to push a little more, past the deflection, but Joly calls Grantaire over, and the teenager straightens instantly, starting to grab his paper to ball it up, but Jehan stops him, gently, with a sheepish, sweet smile. "May I see?"

"Oh. Um." Grantaire stands, shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah, I guess. It's nothing special, but sure."

"Thank you," he says sincerely, suddenly realizing how far he's come since he was like this about his own poetry, and Grantaire flushes red, shrugs awkwardly, and scurries off toward Joly.

Sighing softly, Jehan smooths out the paper and looks at it. It's nothing like Grantaire draws now and it’s leaning towards unoriginal, but it has potential in the rough lines of graphite. He studies it thoughtfully, then starts to smile again, unable to help it.

"What's gotcha smiling?" Courfeyrac asks, appearing suddenly and slipping into the seat beside Jehan, curious as he peeks over at the paper. "R's drawing?"

"R's drawing," Jehan agrees, shifting the paper so Courfeyrac can see it more clearly. It's a little trite, maybe, a bold figure with curled hair striding forward with a flag and shapeless people at his back, back lit by eraser sharpened light, juxtaposed with an encroaching storm over the heads of another vague crowd, twisted and bent, still sketchy and unfinished in places.

"I'm kinda surprised he didn't argue with Enjolras," Courfeyrac admits, still studying the drawing, an assessing look on his face. “Or with anyone else, but, y’know.”

Smiling, Jehan traces a finger over a line, nudging his friend's arm. "I know. And he was. In a way. Look, see, here's the hope and light, progressing, but the darkness oppressing the people just seems so overwhelming. But it's a much more hopeful outlook than he used to give, he wants the light to advance, and the people closer to it are straightening up. It’s very symbolic."

"If you say so." He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "I just hope we figure things out soon. Poor kid."

"I do. And we will, somehow," he replies. Jehan gently folds the paper, slipping it into his bag, then reaches over to pat Courfeyrac's arm. "It's what we do."

 

 

The weight of all their eyes is beginning to make Grantaire itch, but he doesn't dare say anything, just hurries over to Joly's side, which is more familiar if not more comfortable, even though this is a conversation he really isn't interested in having. He really hopes this isn’t the part where they scold him for his occasional drinking or whatever else.

"Uh-huh?" he asks, waving awkwardly and a little uselessly at Combeferre, who simply waves back. "I guess you guys talked, then."

"We did," Joly agrees, free hand twitching a little like he wants to reach over and ruffle Grantaire's hair but is restraining himself. "And I have a feeling that you don't want a lecture and neither of us wants to give it, so we'll skip that part. It looks like you don’t have older you’s chemical dependence and either you haven’t been drinking enough to have your own or something about this has kept them from showing up. Let us know if you start to feel ill or shaky, but you should be alright, and since the painkillers helped, we think it’s a mild side affect of whatever happened."

"We don’t know if it will continue, or if any other effects might show up and be unpleasant," Combeferre adds softly, and Grantaire appreciates his honesty. "But it should be manageable. You can call either of us if you feel like something is wrong."

Ashamed, he looks down at his feet and nods, trying not to let his shoulders hunch inwards, rubbing his upper arm a little. Because fuck, this feels too much like disappointment and why the hell has it gotten bad enough that he has to admit that he might have been dependent on alcohol already?

"R," Combeferre says, and Grantaire glances up at him. "It isn't all your fault. The issue is complex and, while you're old enough to make decisions about many aspects of your life, the people around you should have already helped, and you're dealing with other factors that make it harder. We understand that. We aren’t going to judge you for it."

Swallowing, he nods again, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He wants to be angry, but it also makes him want to cry because it's his fault, of course it is, and he doesn't know how else to do things. And he's pretty sure that older-him would want to punch them in the face for this conversation, but then older-him would probably be totally horrified at a fourteen-year-old other than him drinking and he hates that he can't even bring himself to deny that this is fucked up. So he just nods, a little helplessly, avoiding their eyes until he notices Curls - Enjolras - looking over again.

He keeps doing that, keeps sneaking glances at Grantaire with a pinch to his brows and something weird in his face, and now he mostly looks concerned. Grantaire wants to know what the fuck his deal is, but he's pretty sure that yelling at him would only make everyone else mad and he doesn’t know who he would even ask, so he rolls his shoulders and tries not to notice, looking back up at Combeferre and Joly.

"Okay. Okay. So, uh, what's the plan for now?" he asks, because he's really curious but there are too many of them here and they're going to realize Things if they talk to him too much. And because he kind of hopes it's not Enjolras, who makes him shiver.

Joly smiles and leans a little more weight on his cane, absently and easily, and is thankfully willing not to push Grantaire on the subject any more. "Well, we don't really have one, I don't think. Research and planning, I think is the most of it, and I imagine you aren't too interested in that. Though you're welcome to stay, if you are. Maybe talk to Bahorel? I know you'd probably rather not, but..."

"Dude," Grantaire says, raising an eyebrow at him, snorting a little in amusement. "I may not like having keepers, but even I'm not fucking stupid enough to want to run around Paris on my own as a fourteen year old."

That makes Joly laugh, running a hand through his fluffy hair and not even flinching at the swearing. It's one of the many things he likes about this man. "I should have expected that. But, really, you'll enjoy Bahorel's company."

"We'll see. Um. Thank you, though. Both of you. For, y'know." He shrugs a little, and feels easier at their smiles, politely excusing himself and edging around the room to approach Bahorel. Enjolras is engaged in conversation with Jehan and Courfeyrac now, or, rather, is listening to them with an intent and thoughtful look, but Grantaire feels red creeping into his cheeks each time he thinks of the man's attention on him again. At least Marius' staring is concerned and kind of puppyish (can he describe a man older than he is as puppyish? Grantaire will go with it).

Bahorel looks up as Grantaire approaches, giving him another of those easy grins after breaking off his conversation with Feuilly and Bossuet. "Finally escaped the doctors?"

"Uh, yeah," he says, resisting the urge to fidget with his curls. "So, um."

Mercifully, Bahorel seems to get the idea.

"Gettin' tired of these pretentious and overprotective fuckers?" he asks, waving off halfhearted and good-natured protests. "C'mon, I got some things to pick up and I'll even pretend like I'm giving you a tour."

Bossuet laughs at that, but it’s painfully apparent that he’s trying to reassure Grantaire that Bahorel is alright. Grantaire thinks he still probably appreciates it. "The only one who knows Paris better than him is older you, R, don't let him trick you."

"Well," Grantaire says, after a moment, "that's older me, so I guess I'll have to make do."

"Damn straight," Bahorel says, rising with a rumbling laugh, and snagging his coat, jamming a truly atrocious fuchsia hat over his mane of dark brown hair. "And we'll see all you losers tomorrow."

With that, he slings an arm over Grantaire's shoulders, telegraphed broadly enough that he doesn't startle, has time to decide to allow it, waving again at Bossuet and then Joly and Combeferre. Bahorel bellows out farewells and starts chatting at him even as they walk out of the room and down the stairs, the hijabi waiter from the previous day waving at them cheerfully.

It's already quieter, and Grantaire doesn't feel quite so much trepidation, now. Paris is a beautiful city, spread out in front of them, and even though it’s bone chillingly cold, he’s eager to see where they’ll be going, wants to drink in as much of the sight and sound and scent and everything that he can, while he can, and commit it to his memory. Only when they turn a corner does Grantaire realize that he’s smiling a little.

 

 

Bahorel is used to Grantaire by now, isn't surprised that even after the teenager starts chatting with him, asking questions about the city and where they're going (stopping by, saying hello, this is how Bahorel stays in touch with the people and the streets), he doesn't quite get to what he wants to say.

Grantaire talks around issues, and though Bahorel himself prefers to be direct, it's never been a problem in their friendship, because eventually, the other man always manages to get to the point, and half the time it ends in drinking and getting into brawls because that's what they do.

As a teenager, though, he's a little quieter, much more guarded at the same time that he's softer, eyes sharp on Bahorel when he thinks the man isn't looking. He doesn’t have the effortless awareness of his self and surroundings that he will when he’s older, hunched defensively against the elements and the environment, his hands visibly clenched in the pockets of his coat. But even with that, he's clearly already in love with Paris, attention caught on the strangest and smallest of things. Bahorel wonders when he started noticing these things.

"So, can I ask a probably shitty question?" Grantaire asks suddenly, as they walk down a quiet street, eyes shifting up to meet Bahorel's briefly before sliding away. It would look sullen if it weren't for the tension in his shoulders.

Bahorel nods. "Yeah. Sure, go ahead."

"Joly and Bossuet," he says, slowly, tension coiled through his spine as he fumbles for the words. "Are they...? And are you guys....?"

It should send him white hot with rage, with defensiveness, but Bahorel's always been good at reading kids. He remembers Grantaire when he first met him, uncertain and stiff with overcompensating performances of masculinity and heterosexuality. And he sees the way R's hand occasionally creeps up for something to fumble with, like a rosary.

So he shrugs a little, keeps himself casual, because he also remembers the way Grantaire would notice Enjolras’ oncoming furies or Courfeyrac’s whirlwind tempers before anyone else, and that's the best thing to do, to be casual. "Yeah, they are. They're in a relationship with one another and Musichetta - she's out of the country, I dunno if you've met her yet, but she's quite possibly your best friend, though they're close contenders. And, yeah, our social platform includes gender and sexuality issues too. We would never judge anyone for those things, though we call kinda fall into different categories."

Grantaire nods, face not sharp with thought as he looks down, uncertain and still processing. But he's not lashing out or ranting or snarling at himself or freaking out, so Bahorel counts it as a victory. If there's one thing boxing's taught him, it's how to navigate Grantaire's defenses. "... Okay. Um. How the fuck do they manage to handle that?"

"Kinda personal," Bahorel tells him, but with a nod. "But in this case, we can let it go. Lots of communication, apparently, and treating each other with love and respect. Not that different from a good relationship between two people."

"Oh." He grins, tentatively. "Well. I guess I never thought of it that way."

"Not many people do," he says, with a rolling shrug of his shoulders, letting them lapse back into silence and wondering what R sees when he's looking at all of them, meeting them all over again. He knows what he should do, what he should say, in theory. That he should try to tell Grantaire that it's okay to be pansexual and that he should try to knock his undoubtedly shitty and problematic views of women out of his head.

But for now, he doesn't want to push. He’s always been good at reading people and situations, especially when they’re expecting a fight. R's a kid and he's still overwhelmed, and so Bahorel's just going to give him space for the personal kindnesses and affections and not-quite-crushed idealism that make them all love him so fucking much even when he's acting like a dick.

"Shit, it's getting later. Wanna get lunch?" he suggests, because he's hungry, and because he likes seeing people's faces when they're enjoying themselves. It doesn't take much work to convince Grantaire and then he's steering him into a cafe he knows the teenager will adore.

And for the first time, he sees Grantaire grin with all his fourteen-year-old heart. The sullenness and fear have finally fallen away, and he waves his hands excitedly as he tells Bahorel about Greek mythology with the brightest light to his eyes. He’s not quite babbling, but he’s slipping wordplay in without even seeming to notice, and that’s always a good sign. But then, midway through a sentence and just after a surprisingly clever pun, he falters, finishes quietly, and shutters closed again, looking down.

"Shit," Bahorel says, and repeats it with vitriol in his head because _fuck_ Grantaire's parents, fuck them for making this kid feel like he’s not worth attention or love and like his desires and interests matter. "That's some cool stuff. They chained her to a fucking rock?"

"Yeah," Grantaire says, softly, and he doesn't pick up his stream again, but he smiles a little and blushes faintly, and he seems quietly thoughtful for the rest of the meal. He's like that the rest of the afternoon, swinging between sullen with affected uninterest and strangely contemplatively quiet, with occasional flashes of lightness or engagement whenever it’s just the two of them and the cold air.

But he doesn't complain about Bahorel leading him through the mazelike streets of Paris and asks about his tattoos with real curiosity, and he's a good kid, for all his posturing. He eventually starts lagging, though, looking tired and twitchy, though he doesn’t complain. Without a word, Bahorel takes another turn and they head back to the tiny, cramped apartment that's plastered with posters.

“That’s cool,” Grantaire says, almost hesitantly, nodding to a movie poster.

Bahorel grins at him, sweeping a pile of coats off the couch and over to his already buried desk. “Isn’t it fuckin’ awesome? Picked it up a couple months ago. Aw, dude, how do you feel about movies?”

“I like them.” He gives Bahorel an unimpressed look, arching a brow. “I’d hope you already knew that, though, if we’re friends.”

Grantaire says it like he’s uncertain about that last part, so Bahorel snorts a laugh. “Well, yeah, but it’d be damn rude to just act like I already know everything about you. Maybe you hate movies until you’re twenty and never told me, huh? But I’m glad that’s not the case, because I am going to blow your mind with special effects and shit.”

That earns an actual smile, if only a bit of one, and a lazy shrug. “So you say.”

“Just you wait,” he tells him, going to put something on. He briefly considers putting on an awful Classics-inspired action flick so Grantaire can rip it apart, but Bahorel doesn’t know if he’d comment or stay silent and torture himself over it, so he opts for something else. He’s hoping to give the poor kid a break, to give him something good and easy and enjoyable out of all of this shit that has to freaking him the fuck out. Nudging the DVD player closed, he raids the kitchen for snacks before dropping down on the couch with the teenager, who’s half curled around one of the pillows. Bahorel counts it as a success, and hits play.

It takes a while for Grantaire to relax and get into it, but he laughs when Bahorel makes snarky comments, and soon enough he’s utterly engrossed. Not enough to burst into his usual patter of exuberant analysis when it ends, but enough that he grins like Christmas has come early when they put on another.

Grantaire falls asleep halfway through the third movie they put on, exhausted. Bahorel turns it off and silently cleans up, careful not to wake him. He fetches a thick quilt from the closet and gently drapes it over Grantaire’s curled up form, earning a sleepy murmur. Look softening, he can’t help smoothing down his thick curls affectionately, heaving a soft sigh as he turns off the lights.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine never realized she'd gotten so good at dealing with teenagers, Grantaire has a lot of new information to take in, and Courfeyrac immediately regrets what he says. And they still have no real idea of what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer.
> 
> Homophobic and sexist language warning for this chapter, as well as the usual warnings for child abuse and depression/anxious thought patterns.
> 
> I want to thank you all again for your kudos and comments and for reading. And I will do my best to have the next chapter up soon!
> 
> Please feel free to drop by and say hi, ask a question, or chat over on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com).

This time when Grantaire wakes, the sun is already up, spilling in through Bahorel's half drawn curtains, and he's comfortably cocooned in a heavy, comfortable quilt. He yawns, contorted oddly on the couch, and clutches the blanket closer, nuzzling into it. For once his brain isn't buzzing and hollering at him, and he's lazing in the floaty space between dreams and awareness, blinking his way slowly to consciousness.

It's not quiet, not really. He can hear the rumble of traffic outside and the carrying voices, and the sound of the coffeemaker, and it settles him.

Home is always silent when he wakes up in the morning, and he's never sure if that's good or bad until he runs into someone else. And even Paris, in some neighborhoods, lulled itself to sleep, and he'd heard next to nothing in Joly and Bossuet's apartment. But here, it's like the city is filtering into the apartment and Grantaire likes waking to the sound of it, curling inward and then stretching out with a muffled yawn.

"Hey!" Bahorel greets when Grantaire pokes his head out of the blanket, wandering into the living room from the kitchen, his hair already brushed and tamed down, but thankfully he has the grace not to laugh at the impossible mess Grantaire's curls must be.

"Hey," Grantaire belatedly mumbles, still a little sleepy, scrubbing at his eyes and managing something like a smile. "Hi. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sleep in so late."

"Nah, it's not even that late," Bahorel tells him, waving a hand to dismiss it, dropping down in a chair and sipping his coffee. "So no worries. Since you're up, though, you're welcome to take a shower - everything's set out, and there's some stuff that should fit you okay."

He nods, starting to reluctantly untangle himself and fold up the blanket. "Okay. Thank you, seriously."

Bahorel just nods in return. "Oh, and Éponine and Cosette and Marius invited us along to breakfast, if you're interested. Whichever, I don't have plans until later."

"Oh." Grantaire finds himself biting down on his lip again before noticing, making himself not and trying not to start picking at his fingertips either, running a hand through the tangles of dark hair. "Um. Yeah, sure. We can do that. Whatever's best for you, I mean."

"We can go, it'll be pretty low key," he says after a moment. "Yeah? And then you'll get to meet both of 'em. Too bad Musichetta's still out of the country, so we can't introduce you to everyone, but this should pretty much do it."

"Sounds good." He can feel his stomach start to crawl at the thought of more people to impress, but food is always welcome and, well, he doesn't want to be a bother any longer or any more than he needs to be. "Do I still have time to hop in the shower?"

"Yup." Bahorel grins. Grantaire manages something of a smile in return and awkwardly heads down the hall to the bathroom, still a little bleary.

His head is spinning with everything new and strange. He likes Bahorel, he does - actually, he likes all of them he's had a chance to talk to, but this is just so fucking weird. He feels like he's walking on eggshells, just waiting for all of this to come crashing down because no one can be this nice and accommodating. Not that he misses home, and fuck, he feels so guilty for not feeling worse about that. He should, right? Shouldn't he be missing his parents who try so hard with him and his brother and his house and life and everything?

Maybe it's just because he's dysfunctional and fucked up or maybe this is all too weird to really miss anything yet. And this is really weird, but he loves Paris so much. Or at least the parts of it he's seen. He wonders how long it took Bahorel to find all those strange little tucked away places, if he knows them when he's older, and he hopes that he does.

There's only so long he can spend lost in thought, though, because he doesn't want to use too much hot water, so he finishes and dries off and dresses again. The clothes aren't anything he'd pick, but the jeans fit reasonably well and the shirt is soft. There's also an incredibly soft red hoodie that zips up, and Grantaire snuggles happily into its warmth before tackling his hair, eventually declaring it a lost cause.

When he comes out, Bahorel offers him a cup of coffee but he declines, since they're leaving soon anyway. Which is good, since Grantaire starts to fidget just as Bahorel rises, staying quiet as they leave the flat.

The air is crisp and clear and quiet and his breath frosts. Grantaire can't help his smile, wishes that he could draw the silent corners and busy pavements with only a little regret. It's enough to distract and keep his mind busy until they end up at their quiet, out of the way destination.

It doesn't take Grantaire more than a moment to spot Marius seated at a table with two women. He's holding hands with one of them, whose chestnut hair is woven up intricately and is talking to the other woman, who smiles just a touch.

"Good morning," Bahorel greets them, unceremoniously dropping into his chair before taking off his coat, Grantaire taking the only empty chair with a slightly shy smile. Marius' girlfriend has a splatter of freckles over her cheeks and nose, and her soft blue eyes are warm as she smiles.

"Good morning, both of you," she says, then reaches over to offer her hand to Grantaire, her nails neatly manicured and painted. "Hello, I'm Cosette."

"I'm Grantaire. Or R," he says, even though she already must know that, and takes her hand briefly. "Hi."

"It's a pleasure," she all but chirps, eyes crinkling a little at the corners like Grantaire's brother's do when he smiles genuinely. "You know Marius, of course, and this is Éponine."

Éponine’s grin is rather wolfish and full of teeth (she looks a little like some old family photos he's not supposed to have found, so she's maybe Southeast Asian, he guesses), but her dark eyes aren't biting as she tosses her hair - lightened auburn and he wonders how many of them bleach or dye their hair because that seems to be a thing. "Hey."

"Hey," he replies, and tries for a smile, then greets Marius with a nod because he's not really sure what else to do, and he catches himself twisting of the fabric of the jeans that aren't even his and laces his fingers together.

"Thanks for joining us," Cosette says, mostly to Bahorel, and waits for him and Marius and Éponine to get caught up in a debate about breakfast before she returns her attention to Grantaire, her eyes searching him out surprisingly gently. She lowers her voice enough not to draw attention when she speaks. "I'm glad to see you. Are you doing alright?"

"Uh, yes?" He's not sure what to make of her yet, honestly, and he shrugs a little. "I mean, I'm fine."

"Sorry," she says, but doesn't sound it much. "It's just that you and I are fairly good friends and I've been worried about you. This has to be hard."

"I guess." He really doesn't want to talk about it, and thankfully she lets it drop. No one comments on the fact that he stays next to silent all through breakfast, even though he really wants to comment from time to time, wants to break in and say something because there's something he wants to ask or add or something, but he knows that if he starts, he'll talk and talk and talk and not be able to stop. So he keeps his mouth shut determinedly.

They've spent far longer on breakfast than really seems possible when Bahorel sighs loudly. "Got work to do and classes to avoid. R, you mind tagging on after 'Ponine today?"

"No, it's fine," Grantaire tells him, even though he's a little uncertain about her, but it's not like he knows any of them, so it's probably just fine. As Bahorel rises, Grantaire catches his attention and speaks in an undertone. "Thank you very much for letting me follow you around yesterday and crash at your place. And for everything, really."

"Absolutely not a problem," Bahorel tells him with a wide, warm grin, and Grantaire can't help but smile back before the large man is sweeping out the door. After that, it doesn't take long for Marius and Cosette to start looking at their watches, and for them all to go their separate ways, leaving Grantaire to follow Éponine out into the street.

"I've got the day off," Éponine says suddenly. "And it's not like I've got anything else to do. You wanna walk around and look at things, or did Bahorel wear you out the other day?"

Grantaire blinks, startled, then nods, still not sure exactly what he's supposed to think about Éponine, but he likes her. She doesn't seem like the sort of person who'd take shit from anyone. "That... That sounds good. We can do that."

"We'll see how it all plays out," she says, with a shrug, fumbling a cigarette out of her pocket and absently lighting it. "Though don't even ask about tattoos, because Combeferre would kill me if I let you get one."

He doesn't really know why, because normally that sort of comment would make him snap or bristle, and maybe it's just the dry way that she says it, but he laughs, and it feels good to do so.

 

 

Éponine has been curious about this whole thing since she first got the call from Bahorel explaining that, while they’d _found_ Grantaire, he wasn’t quite _their_ Grantaire. And teenage Grantaire isn’t much at all like she’d expected. If anything, she thought there’d be more grandiosity, more showboating and posturing. But he’s quiet, both better and worse at hiding that cutting intelligence and verbosity, and he reminds her a little of herself at fourteen.

That part doesn’t surprise her.

They don’t talk about it, just like they don’t talk about the years where they were both hopelessly hung up on the idea of men too good to be true. But she can’t help but notice the way his face shifts too-quickly when he’s ignored or cut down, just as he can’t ignore the way she holds herself like a weapon. They aren’t very close, really, just… aware. Understanding. And so she can guess at why the Grantaire who ducked in the door of the café this morning dampens himself down to silence.

In the emergency meeting after Joly and Bossuet had whisked Grantaire off, they’d all pretended not to see Enjolras’ silent break, the way his face went from vulnerably heartbroken and _worried_ to ice in the space of a stiff breath. He’d asked them, carefully toneless, not to tell Grantaire that they were together.

And she can kind of understand – it’s no secret in their group that Grantaire had taken a long time to put a label on himself, let alone to come out. Even without that, it’d probably weird him out, being around the person his older self was dating. But shit, she doesn’t know how Enjolras is doing it – especially not after Bahorel sent out that sneakily captured photo of a fluffy haired Grantaire ducking into that distinctively red hoodie.

She’ll play it by ear. Éponine’s learned they have to, with R.

As it turns out, that still holds true. It takes him a while to let his guard down, but then he’s clearly taken in by the city, even occasionally talking very briefly with someone on the street, an awed little look in his eyes. He reminds her a bit of Gavroche, in the way that he seems to hear the city without even realizing it. So maybe Éponine’s a little bit fond of the kid. But after a couple of hours, she can see him just crash. There’s no reason for it that she can tell, but all the tentative joy bleeds out of his face and he looks almost pained and weighed down.

“Hey,” she says, catching his attention and tipping her head back toward the street. “I got some paperwork to take care of. You mind if we head back?”

“Hm? Oh. Um. No, that’s alright,” he replies quietly, absently, and gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes though he’s clearly sincere. And it’s not like she’s a chatterbox, so she keeps quiet as they head back to her place.

Grantaire is still quiet when she lets them in, but his smile is a little more genuine this time, and Éponine gives him the brief and abbreviated tour of the main areas, eyeing him subtly as he gets settled on the couch. Only when she’s firmly established with her honestly far ahead of schedule paperwork does he reach for the book she’d left purposely sitting on the edge of the coffee table.

She counts it a success when she sees him scrunch in to read it more closely, and goes back to her paperwork. So she ends up idly doodling along the edges of a scrap piece of paper, it doesn’t really matter, in the end. Still, she gives it another hour of browsing on her laptop and replying to Joly’s concerned texts before shutting it and going to drop down on the couch.

“Am I in the way?” Grantaire asks, looking up from the book he’s already most of the way through. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Éponine tells him, shrugging and propping her feet up on the edge of the coffee table. “Mind if I put something on, though?”

He shakes his head, shifting a little more towards the end of the couch anyway, tucking his feet under himself. She flips on the TV, looking around until she finds something suitably interesting that definitely isn’t a soap opera – she’s had enough of those to last her a lifetime – and doesn’t even realize that Grantaire is watching until the female love interest storms out after the protagonist has dismissed her feelings _again_ (Les Amis have ruined her for media and she doesn’t even give a fuck anymore).

“What a bitch,” Grantaire mutters, rolling his eyes.

“Hey,” she says, not quite snapping, but unamused, giving him a hard stare. “Don’t you use that word.”

He blinks at her, surprised, but then the corner of his mouth is curling up a little, look unaffected. “What? I’m saying she’s a female dog, there’s nothing wrong with that, dog’s an equal opportunity insult.”

Éponine fucking hates teenagers, and she can’t even be surprised he’s going for a linguistic defense, but she doesn’t move a muscle, just keeps giving him that flat, unimpressed look. “It isn’t, and you know it, or you wouldn’t be smirking. Or do you and I really need to have a conversation about slurs, because I can think of a few you’ve probably heard before, and I’m pretty sure that you wouldn’t take kindly to a “well, technically it means” on those.”

Grantaire’s smirk melts in a moment, and he blinks.

“Oh,” he says, so softly she can hardly hear it, and he looks genuinely, deeply pained for a moment, frowning. “Fuck, you’re _right_.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, still soft.

She wonders if no one had ever phrased it like that before, because Grantaire, back when she first met him, could be kind of a dick. He still can, but it’s mostly in the way that all of the boys can be, and a sharp glance usually has him wincing and correcting himself. But right now he looks legitimately stunned to realize the similarities of ethnic and gendered slurs.

“Just don’t do it again,” she says, before he can work himself up into an anxious mess, and she lets her tone gentle just a little, like telling Azelma _again_ not to do this, that, or the other thing. “Got it?”

He nods, contrite, and falls quiet again, huddled in on himself a little as he thinks, and clearly he is thinking, his brow furrowed in the way that means he’s either gearing up for a speech or to get into it with Enjolras.

Éponine just lets him, because he’s not the worst kid in the world, and idly flips to a documentary. She’s never been the best at reading books, but she can’t get enough of this stuff, even though she’s never cared about Spanish cathedrals before. They catch the last half hour, and then she’s browsing again, smiling a touch when she sees that someone’s playing _The Hedgehog_ later and makes a note to make R read the book. (She knows his older self has a copy, well worn and loved).

This time, Grantaire clearly means to break the silence.

“Hey, Éponine.” Still, he shifts a little when she looks over with a lift of her eyebrow. “So. You don’t seem like you take shit from anybody. What’m I like? Everyone’s been avoiding that.”

“Have they?” She’s not surprised, but she’s curious.

He snorts a little. “Literally, other than Joly telling me that apparently I take meds, oh, and that I’m part of your group, no one has been willing to say anything. Except that apparently I know Paris pretty well. It’s not hard to notice that no one tells you anything about you.”

Éponine huffs a little bit of a laugh. “Well, you do know Paris well – the best places for everything. And you do take meds. You also box and dance and fence and do single-stick and paint and draw and fuckton of other stuff. You’re a good guy, R. Reliable, and friendly, and helpful. Occasionally kind of a dick, but you always feel bad about it after.”

Grantaire nods, slowly, looking a little surprised at the litany and at the same time not surprised at all. He picks a little at the hem of his jeans, not meeting her eyes. “Sorry about that. … What do I do? Like, anything useful?”

“You paint, you freelance, you’re working on your masters in the Classics.” Éponine knows, though, what he’s really asking, and continues before he can flinch. “You’re good at it, and you’re happy. You started dating someone a couple months ago.”

“Really?” That, out of everything, seems to surprise him most, Grantaire looking at her in confusion.

“Yeah. I can’t really put you in touch right now, given everything, but… yeah. You guys are kind of sickening.” She has to be careful, so careful, but she can’t regret it, with the look on his face.

He’s not quite smiling, and he looks a little bewildered before he recovers. “I mean, I know, I know, dating’s not a measure of success, whatever, but… But someone finds me…?”

“ _Someone_ ,” she says, dryly, “is head over heels in love with you and thinks you’re brilliant and wonderful and stares at you with the most ridiculous face. Sickening, like I said.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, blushing deeply, but he looks shyly pleased at that as he plays with the hem of his jeans again, clearly flustered as he runs a hand through his curls. “Well. Sickening, like you said.”

Éponine shakes her head and suppresses a smile, though she’s not quite sure that she manages it. “Exactly. I’m gonna go put dinner together. I’ve got a book for you, too, remind me.”

He’s still blushing faintly, eyebrows arched in pleasant surprise, and he smiles at her a little as he nods.

 

 

Apparently, things are too busy for a full meeting, but when Grantaire wakes up in the morning, Éponine tells him they're meeting up with a handful of them for coffee and lunch. He just nods, because there's not much else to do, and watches more documentaries with her until they need to leave.

Éponine makes him take the book she leant him, and Grantaire can't argue too much, just tucks it into his jacket. It's weird, not having his own clothes or things, really, not even a bag. But there's enough room for a book, at least, so he'll take it.

When they show up, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras are all sitting together, leaned in close to speak with a comfortable and casual familiarity, and Grantaire suddenly aches, wondering if he has friends like that. But he hides it, because he doesn't want to look pathetic or desperate, and takes a seat when Courfeyrac finally looks up and notices them.

Idly, Grantaire wonders if they always eat out this much, or if they're meeting at public places for his benefit. But then Combeferre quietly catches his attention, look softened with a sort of warm concern.

"We stopped by your apartment in hopes of at least finding some things that might be to your tastes," he says. "I apologize for not thinking of it before now."

"It's alright," Grantaire tells him, a little bewildered. Because, yeah, he's not used to couch surfing, but he's been able to get at least mostly clean clothes each day, so it's not a huge deal. "Thanks, though. I appreciate it."

"But of course!" Courfeyrac says, while Enjolras smiles quietly. "It was our bad, we should have thought ahead. This has to be weird enough without having your own toothbrush."

That makes him smile, a bit. "Yeah, I guess it kinda has been. And, I mean, who knows how long I'll be like this - teeth are important, or something."

He tries not to give away how that makes his chest clench tightly, makes the gnawing feeling return to his stomach and his spine. Because what if he's here forever? What if he's permanently fifteen years into the future and he has to start up school again when he's so far behind and they all get sick of him or he gets sent back to his parents and they'll be furious because they thought they were done with his worthless, spineless, hopeless self eleven years ago.

Éponine is watching him with sharp eyes and a neutral expression, but she doesn't say anything, and Enjolras' mouth is curved down slightly, but he seems like the sort of person who is just always displeased or unsatisfied, so he probably hasn’t even noticed Grantaire’s internal turmoil.

"Ah, about that," Combeferre says, as calmly as he always seems to. "We haven't found anything concrete, of course, since this is highly unusual. But we're looking, and doing our best. It hasn't even been a week yet, so we haven't made much dent in anything obscure."

"Alright," Grantaire says, and it's not like he can argue. He doesn't have any idea why or how he's here, so it's not like he can have expected them to figure it out in three days. So he shrugs. "Well. Let me know if I can help, I guess? Or if you find anything?"

He smiles. "Of course. And you haven't experienced anything strange?"

Grantaire shakes his head. "No. The headache is gone, and it hasn't come back. I've been, y'know, normal."

"Well, everyone has my number, if something does come up, or Joly's," Combeferre says, with a bit of a smile, and lets Grantaire go back to his quiet. He picks up with Éponine instead, the two chatting idly about something they both saw recently and work, Courfeyrac cutting in and out of the conversation.

He's content to listen, though, and not have to try to figure out the right things to say, picking slowly at his food because he just doesn't have much appetite right now. It's hard not to start fiddling with the sleeve of the hoodie again.

"How are you doing, R?" Enjolras asks, suddenly, the quiet question a far cry from the hymn-like conviction of his speech a few days ago. His blue eyes are still disconcertingly piercing, but at least he doesn't seem to be studying Grantaire as heavily. He wonders if this man even likes him - he doubts it, because, well, he's _Grantaire_.

"Um, I'm alright," he says, shrugging.

For a moment, he swears he's imagining it, but Enjolras' brow has cocked up ever so slightly, and he's either amused or incredulous. Maybe both. "Yes?"

"Well, it is strange," Grantaire allows, slowly, fumbling the words around in his brain, and fuck, he can't even talk correctly, he's such a fucking _disappointment_. "I feel like I'm missing a lot of things. But everyone has been really nice, and Paris is... Paris is pretty amazing."

Enjolras smiles, very faintly, and nods. His eyes, though, are still unreadable and intense. It's like they're on fire and buried in ice all at the same time, sharp and cutting even framed by long lashes. "It's a lovely city. I'm glad to hear that it hasn't been all bad."

"Oh! No! You guys are great!" Grantaire hastens, ignoring the squeeze of knowledge that they aren't his friends, that they can't know older-him that well (or maybe he really does grow the fuck up, somehow).

"Also good to hear," Enjolras says, and he might actually be teasing. "I'd hate for you to find us all insufferable."

No, Grantaire is pretty sure he's teasing, which is just honestly pretty strange, but he manages a tentative smile in return, and catches the tail end of Éponine’s evaluating look as she excuses herself and waves off his thanks again. Without her, he's desperately and ridiculously worried that they'll draw inward again and just forget that he's here, so he shifts a bit. "So, um, what's the plan for today?"

"You're stuck with me!" Courfeyrac says cheerfully, brown eyes dancing. Apparently that is not a tired cliché, because really, that's what the light seems to be doing when he smiles. "If you don't mind, of course. I was thinking we could catch up a bit and figure out what was on your radar, get into some trouble, you know, the usual things. I don't know what you're up for."

"I'm up for pretty much anything," Grantaire says, with a shrug, because he might as well be, and he's too scrambled by all of this everything to have much of an opinion on what the options are, let alone what to actually do. "Just don't let me get into the way of whatever you need to get done today."

Courfeyrac smiles, disarmingly. "I've cleared my schedule, more or less. Some of us prefer not to be on call all of the time. Besides, it's _Paris_. You have to do Paris, Grantaire."

He just shakes his head and smiles, because the enthusiasm is infectious, and the knot of worry and stress behind his breastbone has loosened, just a little. "It sounds like you're using me as an excuse to do touristy things."

"Well, only perhaps," he says, with an air of exaggerated hurt, and Combeferre and Enjolras snort in amusement, sharing a look between themselves and, surprisingly, with Grantaire.

Suddenly, startlingly, he realizes that he likes them too. They've intimidated him, because they're, well. They talk like wealthy students, and there's no mistaking it in the lines of Enjolras' and Courfeyrac's clothes and posture or Combeferre's cultivated diction. Grantaire can just hear it when they talk, but he can't explain what it is he hears - an accent, maybe, but that sounds really unspecific. The point is, they should probably look down on him, but they're all of them very kind. And honest. And real.

It's not that Grantaire thinks that students aren't real people, or that people over twenty suddenly stop being interesting, but they've always seemed untouchably old before now. Les Amis, even these three, seem like they're anyone else he might run into, and it's warming in a way he can't explain. Not that Grantaire can explain what goes on in his head, ever, even on good days. But he's gotten lost in thought again, which isn't surprising, his days kind of just blur together, honestly, and they're wrapping up.

Courfeyrac bounces to his feet after profusely thanking their waiter, turning that bright gaze on Grantaire again. "Shall we?"

"Uh, alright," he agrees, smiling shyly at Combeferre and Enjolras. "Thank you, for your help, and for lunch."

"It was our pleasure," Enjolras says, after a moment, and there's something Grantaire can't decipher in his face.

Combeferre smiles, and rolls back from the table a little to hold out a bag. "Of course. We'll see you soon, Grantaire."

"Oh, right! Thanks," he repeats, feeling awkward, but the man's smile only grows a little, and Grantaire waves at the two of them over his shoulder before he follows Courfeyrac out the door.

 

 

In the end, it’s not so much that Courfeyrac takes Grantaire to all the touristy areas of Paris as he takes him the long way home. They linger through markets and past small, musty bookstores, and Courfeyrac takes the opportunity to fill Grantaire up with anecdotes about the group, knowing exactly what will make him snort or full out laugh.

But really, Courfeyrac has never been as much of a wanderer as Feuilly or Bahorel or Grantaire himself, and he really doesn’t want to spend his day walking, and Grantaire looks kind of tired anyway, so he doesn’t feel too bad when they eventually wind up at his door. He’s only picked up enough that the flat isn’t a wreck, but he feels, distantly, like he should apologize. He doesn’t, though, because the teenager doesn’t even seem to notice.

“So, lucky for you,” Courfeyrac tells him, heading down the hallway as soon as their shoes are off and flashing Grantaire a smile. “Since Marius moved out, I have a spare room. Probably a little nicer than the couch, at least.”

That makes Grantaire smile a little, still strangely shy and quiet (and Courfeyrac gets it, really he does, because sometimes he just needs things to be quiet and calm, but it’s still really weird, Grantaire of all people being quiet – not even a sulky, sullen quiet, but a watchful, respectful quiet). “Thank you.”

“Yup, not a problem,” he replies, opening the door and watching as Grantaire almost hesitantly sets down his bag by the bed, worrying at his lower lip when he looks back at Courfeyrac.

And Courfeyrac spend enough time living with Marius Pontmercy to recognize that look, of someone who’s had no time to themselves in days and is about ready to snap one way or another – he knows that with Marius, it was bursting into tears over something small and seemingly insignificant, he doesn’t want to find out what it is for Grantaire, especially not a teenage one. And it’s not like Courfeyrac doesn’t get grumpy if he doesn’t get some time to himself every so often. So he watches another moment before speaking.

“So, I’m going to be terrible and a horrible host and go finish my book in the living room, and I’m probably not going to be the most exciting company,” he tells Grantaire, and it’s not quite a lie. “You’re welcome to come join me or hang out in here and read or sleep or whatever. Holler if you need anything, like, at all.”

Grantaire smiles, and oh, he’s seen this one before. It’s just that it’s usually directed at someone else. “Okay, whatever, that’s cool. And, uh, thanks.”

“You’re more than welcome,” Courfeyrac tells him, pushing all his warmth and sentiment into the sentence, and grins when Grantaire ducks his head, abashed but clearly pleased, even as he shrugs.

Courfeyrac isn’t surprised when he doesn’t see so much as a hair of the teenager for the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening. He slips past the guestroom door twice, once spotting him with his nose buried in a book, the next time curled up and just barely asleep. He snaps a silent picture of that, and texts it to Enjolras, whose response is less than amused but not vindictive enough for him to be really upset. That done, he goes back to his book, looking up when a rather rumpled looking Grantaire finally pokes his head out.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says, cheerfully. “I was just going to come find you. I’m going to make dinner - do you wanna keep me company?”

“I can help, if you’d like,” Grantaire says, with a shrug, still bundled in Enjolras’ red hoodie that he seems to have taken a liking to. Or maybe he’s just cold, but Courfeyrac likes the first idea better and is going to tease Enjolras horribly about it, and Grantaire when he’s back to himself.

“Nonsense, you’re a guest.” Courfeyrac waves a hand, setting his book aside and leading the way into the tidy kitchen. “I’d love your company, though.”

Grantaire nods, ending up sitting at the raised counter, arms folded on it as he leans forward, watching as Courfeyrac starts pulling things out to make food. He’s decided to show off just a little, nothing that will be too complicated or strange, but hopefully enough to earn a smile – at some point, that became his goal, to get Grantaire to really, actually smile. He seems softer, less prickly, than his adult self, but the barbed wire has been mostly replaced with a smooth blankness, a neutrality that turns them away when the façade doesn’t slip.

“Sooooo,” Courfeyrac drawls, glancing over as he mixes ingredients in one of his nice metal bowls. “You’re probably sick of the question, but tell me what you think of our little group, I am curious! Feed my curiosity, R, you know you want to.”

The teenager snorts a little, quiet for a while, long enough that Courfeyrac is almost wondering if he should be offended, before he finally speaks. “Everyone I’ve spent any time talking to seems nice? Maybe a little too interested in watching me, but I suppose that I would be curious if someone I knew was suddenly a teenager again. You guys are kind of freaky, but it’s not… a bad thing.”

He seems to be picking his words very carefully, and Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows.

“Freaky in what way?” he asks. “You mean that so many of us dress alternatively, or that so many of us are queer?”

“… That so many of you aren’t white. Or, y’know, otherwise not normal.” Grantaire shrugs, but he’s suddenly on the defensive, an ugly little curl to his lips, shoulders hunched. “Including that so many of you are fags.”

“Pick a different word,” Courfeyrac snaps.

“What, you used queer,” Grantaire replies, snotty. “What’s the difference?”

He takes a slow, deep breath. Education first. Education first, he’s just a fucking teenager, he probably doesn’t know better even if he _should_. He keeps his voice easy and calm, even if his shoulders are still tense, careful not to look over. “The difference is that we decided to take queer back as our own word. The other one’s still a slur. And yeah, people might still think it’s weird, but it’s really not, it’s perfectly natural, and a lot more complicated than they ever taught us. Haven’t you ever found a guy attractive? That’d be perfectly normal.”

“No,” Grantaire spits immediately. “Unlike you all, I’m not a fucking _fag_.”

Courfeyrac feels the rage clawing up his throat, the rush of adrenaline that seems to seize the base of his neck and his spine. The alternative is losing his temper completely, which is not an option, so he just takes the same tone of voice, reasonable, deliberately light, that he uses when his younger sisters spout some classist bullshit, hoping that they’ll realize how ridiculous they’re being and _listen_.

“Oh? Never? Not even Enjolras? I guess maybe your taste has changed, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t hallucinated you two dating the last few months.”

“No! I wouldn’t ever, I’m not, I wouldn’t, I’ve never, I’m _not_ ,” Grantaire stutters, and Courfeyrac freezes. Because Grantaire doesn’t sound furious or flustered, he sounds _terrified_ , and when Courfeyrac turns, his eyes are wide and he’s curled inward, every muscle tensed in expectation, and he looks someone has cut him open.

And, yeah, Courfeyrac had wanted to cut through the layers of bullshit, but he’s done it too well. He’d forgotten that there must have been a _reason_ that Grantaire took so long to tell them he’s pansexual (even though it was pretty clear) the first time around, and now Courfeyrac lost his temper and did exactly what he used to scold Enjolras for, and he _fucked up_. Because Grantaire looks like he’s about to have another panic attack, like he’s waiting for a blow – no, he looks like Courfeyrac has pulled his darkest secret from his chest and is about to hold it over his head. Courfeyrac feels _horrible_.

“Oh, R,” he says softly, putting everything aside and lowering his hands, palms out and forcibly relaxed. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Hey, it’s okay. It’s really, really okay. I’m sorry I lost my temper and said anything. ”

Very slowly, like approaching a startled animal, he walks closer, not near enough to be threatening, and shifts to meet Grantaire’s eyes, the teenager still frozen in place and looking sick.

“I promise,” he says, with all of his conviction, “that it’s okay if you do like boys, and it’s okay if you don’t, there’s nothing wrong with you either way. And no one will use that against you. I’m so sorry that I lost my temper, I didn’t mean to do this to you, and I’m very sorry. You’re okay, with us, it’s alright.”

“… You didn’t know,” Grantaire finally says, voice edging between gruff and tremulous, shifting to cross his arms over his stomach, hunching inward defensively. “… It’s okay. Can we… can we not, please?”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac promises, still so careful, and he’s never understood the idea of walking on thin ice as vividly as he does right now. “We don’t have to. Do you want to stay here, or do you want someone else to come pick you up? I understand if you don’t feel safe staying here right now.”

“… No,” he says, at last, trembling a little. “It’s fine, seriously, don’t worry about it. Please.”

Slowly, he nods, and Grantaire seems to relax minutely. “Alright. I’ll finish dinner, if you want a minute, or anything. Will you let me know if you need anything?”

“Seriously,” Grantaire says, a little more forcefully, an edge in his eyes. “It’s _alright_ , you didn’t _know_ , and you just said you didn’t mean it. I’ll let you know.”

“Anything at all,” Courfeyrac reminds him, gently, and carefully turns back to the food he doubts either of them have the stomach for. And he’s right, they both barely pick at dinner, and the silence is still stilted, and his heart is in his throat when he cleans up after.

He’s fucked up so badly, and everyone is going to be rightly furious. He’s furious with himself. He _knows_ , okay, well, he’s _suspected_ for a long time that Grantaire’s family wasn’t the most functional if not outright abusive, and shit, that poor kid.

“… Um,” Grantaire says softly, breaking Courfeyrac’s reverie, fidgeting nervously in the doorway and shifting his weight from foot to foot, staring at the floor. “Can I… could you…”

He shuffles forward a little, arms coming up just a bit, and he looks so forlorn and pathetic that Courfeyrac’s heart breaks for him.

“Is it alright if I hug you?” he asks, delicately, and waits for Grantaire’s nod before he gently draws the teenager into his arms, holding him close and just barely managing not to pet down his hair. Courfeyrac just focuses on making it as warm and secure as possible, and he’s able to breathe a little easier when Grantaire hugs back and slowly relaxes into it and hides his face against Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

They stand there for a long minute before Grantaire takes a slow, shaky breath and pulls away with a shy, uncertain smile that Courfeyrac returns. “Can we put on a film or something?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and gets them set up with something that shouldn’t stir anymore complicated emotions up, glad for even this fragile peace.

It’s during a slow moment that Grantaire, curled into a little ball in one chair, says, “I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

“I’m sorry too,” Courfeyrac says, and doesn’t push when the teenager goes silent again. Once the credits roll, Grantaire quietly excuses himself and slips off to the guest bedroom. After a long while, Courfeyrac peeks in on him, and takes another picture of Grantaire tangled and curled in the quilt even though he feels empty and aching with guilt.

He sends this one to Enjolras, too, and adds “Look, I found a blanket with an R in it!” And usually he’d be gleeful, but right now he just wants to make the other man smile, just once. Because he’s going to have to call him and explain that he fucked up. And he will. Later. Because it’s getting late, but Courfeyrac just feels so _guilty_ – what he did goes against everything he believes in.

First, though, he retreats to his room, and texts Marius, asking him to come by first thing because Grantaire may be insisting it’s okay, but Courfeyrac knows it’s not. Marius, bless him, doesn’t ask why, just agrees. And now Courfeyrac should call Enjolras, and tell him what happened.

He just might let himself rage against the unfairness of it all first, just a little.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius wishes he didn't know exactly how this feels, Cosette does what she can to make things easier, and Grantaire maybe thinks this is all doable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual disclaimer applies, and the usual warnings as well.
> 
> Wow, thank you all again for the amazing response and for reading. I just want to let you know that I appreciate every kudos and like and comment, and you all are the best.
> 
> As always, please feel free to stop by on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com)!

When Marius got the text the night before, it hadn’t even occurred to him to do anything other than agree, but now that he’s in the car and heading over to Courfeyrac’s while the sun’s still pale over Paris, he’s suddenly curious as to what prompted the request. He’s debating asking, but instead just tells the other man he’s on his way, still feeling a little uneasy as he heads up to knock on the door.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac greets, softly, stepping out into the hall. He looks tired and a little distraught, eyes a little red, his smile only barely reaching his eyes as he sighs. “Thanks for coming over.”

“Of course,” Marius assures him, but pauses, worried. “Um, you don’t look so great.”

He lets out a strange huff of a sound, mouth twisting down again. “Ah, yeah. So. I fucked up, last night – I’ll let R tell you if he wants, I promised I wouldn’t say – but he might not be feeling that great. So… be gentle with him?”

Surprised, he nods. Of all the people he expected to upset Grantaire, Courfeyrac was more or less the last – usually he’s so aware and attentive of other people. But it’s not like he knows the full story and it looks like Courfeyrac has been chastising himself plenty, and Enjolras is probably not going to be pleased – he really, really doesn’t want to know what would happen if Enjolras lost his temper.

For now, he reaches out and places a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm, touch soft and grounding, and gives him as strong and as comforting a smile as he can. “We will. It will be okay.”

“Thank you, Marius.” Courfeyrac’s smile is a little brighter, this time, and he lets them into the apartment just as Grantaire is wandering out of the guest room, bag in hand and curls barely tamed down by his hat.

“Hey,” Grantaire greets. He doesn’t look happy, certainly, quiet and maybe a little depressed, something faintly sorrowful to his eyes, the shadows under them that are apparently already normal, but he doesn’t look much worse off than usual. Still, Marius doesn’t want to make any assumptions.

“Good morning,” he greets, brightly enough. “Ready to go, then?”

He nods, but pauses to look up at Courfeyrac with a hint of a something off, and tries for a reassuring smile. His eyes are still so _sad_ , but he sounds tentatively, cautiously hopeful. “I’ll see you later?”

It doesn’t do much to ease Courfeyrac’s obvious remorse, but the man still nods and smiles back, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Yeah, at the meeting.”

“Cool.” Grantaire’s smile grows a little, visibly relieved, and then he follows Marius out the door and no, there is definitely something wrong, but Marius doesn’t know what to do.

So he leads Grantaire down to his car and prattles on a little about this and that, which actually seems to settle the teenager some, much to his relief, so he keeps on talking. But things are still awkward when he lets them into the small but lovely flat he shares with Cosette, both of them fidgeting uncertainly in the foyer.

“Um. How about I show you where the guestroom is?” Marius offers, a little belatedly, leading the way back down the hall. “It’s not much, but it’s a room, at least, so there’s that, and I figure you probably want to put down your bag.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, still not meeting Marius’ eyes, ducking inside the sunny room and setting his bag in the corner, hunched in and seemingly lost in thought, hands curling loosely into fists.

“Grantaire-” he starts, unconsciously reaching out and, intending to comfort or reassure or _something_ , puts a hand on his shoulder.

There’s a seamless bleed of motion, Grantaire twisting away from Marius’ hand, elbow halfway up and turning when he stops, his eyes going wide as he realizes, pupils still dilated. Slowly, he drops his arm back down, skittish and mortified as he shuffles back a half step. “… Fuck. I’m sorry. I – Sorry.”

Marius just shakes his head, lowering his hand slowly, brow furrowing, a concerned feeling pooling in his chest. He’s not sure what to say, for a moment, the words sticking in his throat. “You seem unsettled. … Do you want to talk about what happened with Courfeyrac?”

Grantaire swallows, looks down. Then, slowly, he shrugs, but he doesn’t back away, and Marius thinks it’s supposed to be a yes. Which. That’s good. Probably.

“I’ll make some tea,” he says, giving the teenager a minute to breathe or whatever it is he needs, and he’s really not sure what to do. But he makes up the tea and, when they’re sitting on the couch in the living room, he reminds him gently, “You don’t have to say any more than you want to.”

That gets another nod, and Grantaire is quiet for a minute. Marius lets him sit, content to wait patiently. Sometimes the words need a minute to catch up to the thoughts.

"... I fucked up," he says, finally, looking into his teacup like he wants to read the leaves through the liquid. "I used a slur, instead of queer, and then he asked if I'd... ever been attracted to a guy, and I said no, because I _know_ that it's disgusting and _dirty_ and _wrong_ , but he asked again and he said that he _knows_ that I... that I'm... that I'm all of those things. And of course he said it was okay and that he wouldn't tell anyone, but you all _know_ , and either way you're going to realize how _awful_ and _useless_ I am, and..."

Marius' chest feels tight, he feels like his heart is breaking.

"You aren't," he tells him, instead, and yes, Courfeyrac did fuck up but he can't find it in himself to be angry, just desperately wants to hug Grantaire tight until that look on his face goes away because he knows that feeling, he does. "You aren't awful, or useless. I think that sometimes... I think that sometimes he forgets that not everyone is as flexible as he is, and it's hard for him to remember that not everyone thinks it's okay, but he still shouldn't have told you that, whether or not it's true. Your feelings are your business."

Grantaire just shakes his head a little, biting his cracked lower lip, but he glances up at Marius from under his fringe of curls.

He doesn't know what to do, not really. But he has to _try_. "... Did anyone tell you about the first time I came to a meeting?"

"No," he mumbles, brow furrowing at the subject change.

"My grandfather had been lying to me about my father, and I couldn't take it anymore, so I'd just moved out all on my own. I was staying with Courfeyrac, who didn't even know me, really, but he wanted me to come," Marius says, feeling himself go pink at the memory, looking at his own teacup as he goes on. "I wanted so badly to distance myself from my grandfather, to be like my father, but the only thing I knew about him was his political views, which were... about twenty years out of date and actually pretty terrible. But I gave this whole big ramble about them, and when I finished, Combeferre just looked me in the eye and dismantled my whole argument in two words, and then he left, with most of the rest of the room in tow."

He pauses, searching for the right words.

"I think... sometimes they can be harsh, because they forget that not everyone knows what they do. Maybe sometimes we need it, but sometimes it's still a little too cutting. So. You shouldn't have used that word, and it really is okay for you to label yourself however you're comfortable with right now, but it's also okay to be hurt and upset about what he did, even though he really wouldn't ever hold it over you."

Grantaire shudders, a little, still gnawing his lower lip raw, before he nods again. He sets his cup down so very gently, and locks his fingers together. "... He said that I - that older me - is dating a man. Is dating Enjolras."

"You are," Marius says.

"... Really? I... haven't seen much of him."

"Really." He has to think for a moment. "It took the two of you a very long time to get together, but you care about one another very deeply. I don't think he knows what to make of this, but he's worried about you, and doesn't want you to feel overwhelmed by or awkward about the fact that you're dating. But he loves you – er, older you – very much. You're good to one another."

He's not sure at all if that was the right thing to say, but Grantaire takes a soft breath and sighs almost inaudibly, then gives Marius a fragile, faint smile, which is a good sign, even if he's clearly got a lot to think about.

Marius knows that raw, broken feeling far too well.

"Would you like a hug?" he offers, setting aside his cup.

Gingerly, surprised, Grantaire answers in a too-small voice. "I... Yeah."

Careful not to move too quickly in case he's still jumpy, Marius wraps Grantaire up in a hug, and holds him tightly. When Grantaire relaxes slowly, with another silent exhale, it feels too much like Marius did the first time he'd been hugged in _years_ , and he holds Grantaire closer, cuddles him unashamedly and smooths a hand along his back.

The teenager doesn't stiffen or pull back, so Marius shifts them more comfortably, and hugs him as close as he can without being painful, and kisses the top of his head, still just holding him, because Grantaire's tenuous grasp on the back of his shirt feels like he's clinging to a lifeline.

 

 

It’s a long, long while before Grantaire pulls back from Marius’ hold with a breath he hopes isn’t too shaky, and tries for a smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says, with a slightly wry and sheepish smile, embarrassed and angry at himself for needing it in the first place, because seriously, who even needs that to deal with their fucking problems. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s alright,” Marius tells him, genuinely, patting Grantaire’s arm. “Okay? If you want to talk more, that’s alright. But if you need to think a little, I’ll be right here if you need anything. Oh! And there’s the balcony, if you want.”

He nods, and smiles, or tries to. Marius at least turns out not to be lying about that part, simply sipping his tea in quiet and letting Grantaire have the space to think. He drinks his own tea, slowly, occasionally swirling it a little, setting it down gently when he finishes, too panicked to really think, chest tight and hard, feeling distant and separated from everything.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s trembling faintly, and he clasps his hands in his lap, willing himself to stillness. It isn’t working all that well.

He doesn’t know what he wants, what he needs. He wants to be angry, at Courfeyrac, at Éponine, at all of them for not _saying_ , for… for _everything_ , for some bundle of thoughts and emotions that he can’t pick apart or entirely comprehend. And he’s distantly aware that he’s _supposed_ to be angry for there being something to keep from him in the first place, that he should be thinking of them as the ones who corrupted him or convinced him or whatever the fuck it is to act on all of the things he tries to ignore because he shouldn’t think them. Feel them.

Part of him wants to be angry at Enjolras, because didn’t he have a right to know? But, yeah, he hasn’t exactly taken this well and mostly he’s just… well, mostly he’s just glad that there’s a reason for all of his odd looks and strange, quiet expressions. How much would that suck, anyway, for your… person… to be replaced with an obnoxious fourteen year old version, anyway. Grantaire really, really wants to be mad. Or sick. Or disgusted.

But all he can think about, really, is the way Éponine’s razor sharp smile had softened and she’d said “ _Someone_ is head over heels in love with you,” and the way that Marius’ eyes had lit up with his soft “You’re good to one another.” All he can think about is the way that Joly and Bossuet move in thoughtless coordination, how they seemed to know what to say to make Grantaire smile, the way Bossuet had smiled at Joly with genuine tenderness and affection. It’s hard to associate _depravity_ with the fluffy nest of Joly’s hair in the morning or Bossuet’s easy laughter as he teased the cat. They had seemed so much more in love, so much happier – and clearly they are happy – than Grantaire’s parents.

Grantaire just doesn’t know what to think. He wants… He wants a friend, the way they’re always shown in books and films, someone who knows just what to say or who can tease out this _mess_ in his brain, because maybe they’re all right, that it’s not something dirty or wrong, but it feels that way, the thought makes his stomach claw up his throat. Sometimes Grantaire wishes that he could take this roiling knot and throw it all up, rather than sitting here paralyzed.

He can hardly breathe past it.

“There’s a meeting tomorrow, right?” Grantaire asks, finally, past half formed thoughts, because he really isn’t sure and it’s something other than everything else.

"There is," Marius agrees with a nod, brown eyes still too soft with sympathy as he studies Grantaire, cutting just close enough to pity to make him itch but not enough to piss him off. "Relatively early in the day. Do you not want to go?"

"No, that’s not it," he says, going quiet again. He sighs a little, unable to stop all of the thoughts that are overwhelming him, trying to shift through them until he gets to a _point_. "It’s just, shit, it’s… weird. Did you have a hard time, at first?"

Marius smiles ruefully and bashfully, running a hand through his hair as he blushes again. "Oh, yes. I was very sheltered, as a child, and raised by my grandfather, on top of just being ignorant. I made so many mistakes, and said so many hurtful things, I'm sure, and it took me a long time to believe that Combeferre and some of the others really didn't hold a grudge against me. It was so much to take in, but they're all just really very good people, at the heart of things, and they want very much to make the world better, and I want to be a part of that, even though I'm... not affected directly by a lot of things."

"Oh. Hm." Grantaire has another bundle of questions at that, but he doesn't want to be invasive, or rude, doesn't know how to process any of the things running through his brain without sitting and spewing them out thoughtlessly until he can make some sort of _sense_ of them. “… Can we do something else?”

“Mm-hm!” Marius agrees, then pauses, offering, “I haven’t done the crossword, yet, we could work on that?”

“… Yeah, okay,” Grantaire agrees, because it’s _something_ other than just sitting here thinking about all of the things that he has to sort out and doesn’t want to. It’s easier to lean back into the comfortable couch cushions and peer over at the paper with Marius. And for once, he’s enjoying it, unable to help commenting or pointing out words with ease, mind keeping up for once.

And every time he does figure out something that’s been eluding them, Marius smiles at him brightly, like he thinks Grantaire is doing something worthwhile just by doing this, like he’s somehow intelligent. They get briefly distracted by the history of one of the words, and it sprawls out into a discussion about language and cognates, and Marius may be the most puppyish adult Grantaire has ever met, but he also speaks three fucking languages fluently and he _translates_ things.

It takes them probably far too long to finish the crossword because Marius keeps getting distracted, but they end up pulling out another one and this is surprisingly calming. Grantaire only realizes after the man goes to make them some more tea that the frantic murmur of thoughts has calmed some, ebbing away slowly. But now he feels rather numb, the hollow ache of it pressing up against his ribs, and he knows it’s going to stick there, drag him down until he feels like he can’t pull any air into his lungs.

Depression, he reminds himself distantly, and anxiety, that’s what Joly had said, like it was something legitimate, and that it didn’t have to be this fucking _hard_ , but Grantaire can’t see how it can be anything but. And it doesn’t change the fact that he feels so fucking empty and adrift and wrung out, with the hard threat of _everything_ just lurking there until his attention wanders again. He realizes belatedly that he’s rolling the tag of the zipper on the hoodie between his fingers and drops it instantly. Fuck. Just… fuck.

He makes himself smile mechanically at Marius when he accepts the tea and curls his knees up to his chest; if he’s noticed the sudden change in attitude, he doesn’t say anything, just settles back in.

It’s too much, all of this is just too much. And it’s not _fair_. He feels cut loose and unteathered, like he’s scrambling for balance that he can’t get, and now he’s just tipping over to tired and frustrated and angry, biting and bitter, and it sucks just as much, makes him feel just as fucking helpless. He doesn’t want to be home; he doesn’t want to be anywhere.

He uncurls his hands from his palms, nails leaving little marks behind.

Marius speaks earnestly, sincerely, and he's still sitting on the couch in comfortable quiet, waiting for Grantaire to come out of his thoughts and, perhaps, talk a little more, or not. He seems like a good person. And he's been open, and honest.

And right now, Grantaire feels achingly desperate for touch, for connection, for anything to break him out of this. So he looks over, and doesn't let himself speak too loudly. He tries to sound nonchalant but he doesn’t think he quite manages it, which, fuck. "Would another hug be alright?"

"Of course," Marius says, with an easy understanding and no pity in his eyes, and his embrace is warm and there and real.

 

 

Cosette takes her bag of bread with a cheerful farewell, sighing softly as she adjusts her grocery bags and heads off down the street, back in the direction of the apartment, unsure of whether or not Marius will be back with Grantaire. She wonders what prompted Courfeyrac's request and hopes it isn't anything too serious, since she doesn't think she can take it if he's upset too.

She's good friends with R, the older one, but she's always been close to Enjolras too, and she knows it's doing a number on him. He'd finally spoken to her about it yesterday, while they got a cup of coffee, looking as tired as he usually did before an important speech or rally.

His face had drawn in ever so slightly when she'd asked if he'd changed his mind about telling Grantaire yet, and he’d shaken his head, rubbing his face with a soft, controlled sigh, sounding tired and even softer than normal, murmuring that he didn’t want to make him _uncomfortable_ , didn’t want to upset him more, but that he _missed_ Grantaire, their Grantaire, and the quiet admission was painful to hear.

He'd sighed again and changed the subject after that admission, but she could see the longing in his face and she wonders if he's even had a good night's sleep since Grantaire turned into a teenager. She doubts it. And she doubts he's said anything much to Combeferre or Courfeyrac, either, because she knows they'd find his avoiding Grantaire just as unproductive as she does, but maybe he needs it, isn't quite ready.

It's still on her mind as she trots up the stairs and shifts her bags to open the door. Oh. Marius is seated on the couch with Grantaire, hugging him tightly with a quiet, understanding look, the teenager holding back nearly as fiercely. She sees Marius murmur something to him as she slips into the kitchen to put things away, Grantaire slumped back against the couch when she returns.

He looks sullen and sulky at first glance, scowling, but Cosette knows him better than that and crosses over to sit on his other side, resisting the urge to ruffle his curls like she would for his older self (which might make him grumble and wave her off, but would ease the pinch of his brows a little).

"How are you?" she asks, pretending not to notice the faint flush of embarrassment.

"I’m fine, thanks," he mutters, sounding surprisingly polite, but she can tell he’s feeling prickly and defensive, his arms crossed over his chest. “And you?”

"Oh, I’m alright, thank you,” she says, cheery. “It’s a nice morning out.”

“Yeah? That’s good,” he says, still a little stiff but also easier, studying her from the corner of his eye. She can't tell if he's so jumpy because she came in on that quietly vulnerable moment or if it's something more, and looks over at Marius, who wavers.

He only shakes his head, though, apparently deciding to leave it up to Grantaire, though his eyebrows are tilted in that way that means he’s concerned and uncertain.

Cosette hums an agreement, nodding. “I just can’t stay cooped up for long. What all did you two get up to this morning?”

“Oh, uh. Crossword puzzles,” Grantaire tells her, with a shrug, less on the defensive now. “And way too much tea; apparently that’s a thing.”

She laughs, genuinely. “It is. Marius makes tea when he’s anxious; it’s sweet. Something happened, then?”

For a long moment, Grantaire is still as he considers, but he doesn’t seem blindsided by the question and he doesn’t tense up. He sighs, though, soft and long like he's relieving pent up pressure, and looks wrecked and exhausted and vulnerable just for a moment before he nods a little, glancing at Marius, who just smiles at him encouragingly, and then looks back at Cosette.

“Courfeyrac and I got into a bit of an argument last night, my fault, but he let the whole Enjolras thing slip,” he says, with a shrug, running his fingers through his thick mess of curls. “I freaked out a bit.”

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, because it all slots into place and no wonder Marius is being so careful. “Oh. Well. Shit.”

His eyes slide away, and she cuts straight through all of the delicate words and shifts to place her hands on his, waiting until he looks up at her, anxiety lacing the glance that’s meant to be sharp. Cosette's eyes are serious and solemn when she speaks, holding Grantaire's gaze firmly.

"The choices that older you makes and the experiences he has aren’t yours yet, and that’s okay," she reminds him, kindly but decisively, and continues before he can flinch back. “R, there is nothing wrong with you."

The tense line of his mouth and the shadowed cast to his eyes say he clearly doesn't believe her, and he arches a slow brow to prove it.

"Marriage between same-sex couples is legal, now," Marius adds quietly, and Cosette watches Grantaire’s face as she continues.

"Mm-hm. It was legalized last year. And it's so much less dangerous to be out, now, too. It's nothing that's wrong with you, R, and to make you feel otherwise isn't right."

Grantaire rears back a little in surprise, and his eyes are wide enough to highlight the flecks of gold and green in his irises, disbelief and something that might be desperate hope flickering over his features before he shuts down again, sneering, "And I'm sure the church is happy about that."

Cosette just shrugs, continuing to meet his eyes, and wishes that he knew her well enough for her to hug him close. "Some people aren't. And I understand, I do - my father and I always went to church and I went to a religious school. But when I told my Papa that I'm bisexual - that like men and women - he kissed my forehead and told me he loved me. And then he talked to a lot of people and did a lot of research so that he would understand better what I was going through, because I’m more important to him than dogma that’s honestly probably badly translated and taken out of context."

He stares at her a moment, assessing, and then closes his eyes, expression painful, and a high pitched, strangled sound slips out, and he looks like he's about to cry for a moment.

"Can we hug you?" Cosette asks, because to finish driving the point home would be cruel and not what he needs right now, and wraps her arms around Grantaire the moment he nods ever so faintly, pained and dazed, Marius following a moment later and giving her a concerned look.

Grantaire turns his head in against Cosette's shoulder, his tense shoulders hitching up with a suppressed sob. She bundles him closer and looks up at Marius, her eyes a little wet with tears because this isn't _fair_ , that the idea of unconditional love is so foreign to him. Marius looks nearly as distraught, and that's more comforting than if he'd tried to tell her it would be alright. They stay like that for another few long minutes, until the strange angles and awkward positions are too painful to ignore, and Marius rises to make more tea, squeezing Grantaire's hand.

"... Is that what I am, then?" Grantaire asks her, his eyes dry and face carefully blank, but he can't quite keep the break from his voice. "Bisexual?"

"You are whatever you want to call yourself," Cosette tells him gently, belatedly toeing off her heels and leaving them by the side of the couch. "You don't have to start using a label if you aren't comfortable with it yet. Yes?"

"... Alright," he agrees slowly, the look on his face that suggests his thoughts are going in a million directions at once. "But you all..."

"None of us would ever judge you for that, not to mention that it would be very hypocritical for most of us," she tells him. "R, we do all love you. I'm sure it's hard to believe, but we do. You give so much, and we're never going to judge you for, well, all of the things you're probably worried we are."

He just sighs, somewhere between tired and exasperated, and she doesn't push it further. She knows he wants to run - to drink if he can or just _away_ if he can't - and she doesn't want to risk that. It makes her feel so helpless, because this isn't her R, her Grantaire who will let her pin him down and dig to the heart of things, but a boy who deserves so much better than he's gotten, who deserves to be loved and protected and encouraged.

She doesn't let herself sigh, but watches him another moment, the way he's tapping his fingers restlessly against his thigh, a rapid, fluttery motion that's betraying the calm, disconcerting blandness of his expression.

"Marius and I are very affectionate people," Cosette says finally, and wonders if maybe she should have left this all to Marius rather than trying to help, "And, while you're perfectly welcome to say no or change your mind at any time, would it be alright if we hugged you a while longer?"

Grantaire's face squinches up in brief surprise, but he considers it, and then gives in, clearly hurting for any affection, any contact at all. "Uh. Yeah. I suppose that would be okay."

Cosette smiles at him. "Thank you."

As soon as Marius is back with the tea, they end up curled up together on the couch, Cosette tugging a couple of blankets over all of them as they cuddle down with Grantaire in between them, trying to share something of the warmth and comfort they find in one another with him.

 

 

It isn't until the Cafe Musain comes into sight around the corner that Grantaire feels strangely awkward and uncertain.

He'd felt unsettled earlier, but it was just being so tired, and it had been the hardest thing in the world to drag himself from his uneasy, too light sleep and into the shower, trying to piece himself back together under its unrelenting pressure. He feels a little better, a little more alive now. Or he did. Now he's just starting to realize that they're all going to be there, and there will be some sort of news, and it just adds to the downy weight of the grey Parisian sky, snowflakes falling like ashes.

But he just tags after Marius and Cosette, ducking further into his borrowed coat, and shit, how can it only have been a few days ago that he woke up in that alley, after all of this. When they get closer, he realizes that it's Enjolras waiting outside of the cafe, leaning against the wall, not quite so easily recognizable with his distinctive blond hair tucked under a hat.

"Enjolras!" Cosette greets, sounding surprised. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Cosette, Marius," Enjolras replies, softly. "Grantaire."

"Hey," Grantaire says, looking at him again. He's still ridiculously good looking, and objectively - only objectively - he can understand why his older self might be attracted. But Enjolras looks more tired, today, maybe troubled, his expression quiet and subdued but eyes as sharp as they always seem to be.

He doesn't see any point in avoiding this, and looks up at Marius, then over at Cosette, giving them as much of a smile as he can, and it's not as hard to speak as he thought it might be. "Can you give us a minute, please?"

"Okay. We'll be upstairs when you're ready to join us," Cosette says slowly, looking between them before tucking her hand in Marius' arm, the two of them heading inside with a swirl of warmth and a soft chime of a bell.

Shifting his weight over to his other foot, Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets even though it's not really that cold. "So, Courfeyrac told you?"

"He did," Enjolras agrees, seeming almost to be studying Grantaire just as much. "I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to ease your mind, or if you'd prefer me to stay away."

Grantaire snorts, he can't help it, because suddenly this stupid tall, serious man doesn't seem half so intimidating as he did a few days ago. "I'm not actually scared of gay people, you know. And if you know me, then you can probably guess that it's not you freaking me out so much as the general idea of all of... this."

"I had thought so, but I appreciate the reassurance," Enjolras agrees, some strange mixture of serious and teasing, something going on his expression that Grantaire can't decipher, not quite a smile and not quite something pained. "That said?"

He huffs a soft sigh, rocks on his heels a little as he thinks, waits for the words to fall into place in his head. "You haven't taken yourself off the roster yet, have you?"

"Pardon?" he asks, and Grantaire thinks he must have skipped a step somewhere, like always happens when he tries to get his thoughts across.

He hopes the flush in his face looks like it's just because of the cold, and he shrugs, not quite meeting the man's eyes. "I thought that you probably wouldn't leave yourself off R-watching duty because I'd get suspicious, and that you might have, now that I know about you and him."

"You're right," he says, and strangely, he looks... pleased? Or maybe amused, how does older him even tell, it's like he's just about to smile but not quite.

"So don't change it," Grantaire says, shrugging again, balling his hands tighter in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. "I mean... No offense, but this is a _lot_ and fuck, it's all kind of fucking weird. But we could talk then?"

Enjolras considers him for a long moment, his gaze level and steady and no one that pretty should be so intimidating. "That will work, yes."

They stand there a moment, in the silence and the snow, and it suddenly occurs to Grantaire that Enjolras is still waiting for something, probably an answer to his unasked first question.

"I'm fine, really. It was just... a lot, is all," Grantaire says, as gently as he can, smiling up at Enjolras. "You don't need to worry about me."

For some reason, that makes Enjolras smile, but it's sad and soft, or maybe just a bit melancholy, and everything about this guy is so _quiet_ when he's not speaking with all of them, alight with passion, Grantaire doesn't know how he manages it. But he looks affectionate this time, a little bit of softness to those keen eyes.

"I'll take your word for it," he says, at last, shaking his head just a touch. "Well, then. If we're postponing our discussion until later, we should head inside before they come looking for us. I'm going to get a coffee, would you like anything?"

"Uh, no, but thanks," Grantaire replies, a little taken aback, but mostly just relieved that this isn't nearly as awkward as it could have been. They head inside, and Grantaire heads for the stairs, not letting himself dwell on the conversation.

The moment he steps into the back room, they're all _looking_ at him, and he's struck through with the sudden urge to stumble back again, but forces himself to take another half step in. He purposely catches Courfeyrac's eyes and grins at him, relieved when the man smiles back, seemingly back to his usual, cheerful self, and the awkwardness that's been lingering with him since the whole thing in the kitchen fades more.

But that doesn’t mean he likes all of them staring at him any more than he liked them all staring at him the first time he came up here, and he digs his nails into his palms in the pocket of his coat, scowling.

“Okay, seriously, if you all keep looking at me like that and start asking if I’m okay, I _will_ turn around and leave right now,” he snaps, too fed up to be intimidated.

Surprisingly, that makes Bossuet burst out laughing, waving Grantaire over. “C’mere, c’mere, we saved you a seat.”

They saved him the corner seat, he notices as he comes over, bright red as he avoids the rest of their eyes, and he really, really missed these two. Slipping into the seat and hunkering down, he offers them an almost shy smile. “Hi.”

“Hello, R,” Joly says, as cheerfully as ever, and then tsks gently. “You look cold. Would you like some tea?”

He can’t help the face he makes. “Um, no, thanks. Not that I don’t like tea, but…”

“Marius?” Bossuet asks.

“Marius,” Grantaire agrees, and Joly hides his smile.

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” he says, shaking his head. “Now, since despite all appearances, Lesgle and I are not _everyone_ , may I ask how you are? I won’t ask what happened, because that’s yours to decide about.”

Grantaire finds himself smiling anyway, a little, ducking his head a bit, considering the answer for a long moment. “I’m okay. I think I’m starting to get more wor- annoyed by everyone being all jumpy and shit than I am about the fucking conversation in the first place, and it’s just a lot of moving around and things.”

Joly nods. “Understandably.”

“Too many mother hens in this group,” Bossuet agrees, elbowing Joly playfully with a teasing, affectionate grin, a new patch on the elbow of his coat. “But if you want to hide out at our place, you’re more than welcome to. It’s written into our official rules list.”

“You have an official rules list?” Grantaire asks, amused and a little bewildered, but then shakes his head, warmed by the offer even as he plucks a little at the fabric of his jeans. “… Don’t you guys have Musichetta coming back soon, though?”

“Today,” Joly says, with another nod, and it’s impossible to miss the way his eyes light up, and Bossuet’s as well, both of them looking so ridiculously _happy_ at the prospect.

He smiles at them, quietly and a little tightly, regretful, because he just wants to hide in the quiet of their flat and curl up with Joly’s cat some more. “I couldn’t interrupt, that wouldn’t be fair.”

They share a glance and something silently passes between them.

“Alright,” Joly tells him, finally. “But don’t be surprised if we call and beg your attendance because Musichetta wants to see you.”

Grantaire snorts quietly. “I really, really doubt that, but… yeah, okay. If she does.”

He can’t imagine that she wouldn’t want to be with her… boyfriends? Lovers? People? Whatever, that she wouldn’t want to be with Joly and Bossuet after being gone for so long, even if the idea that she might be worried about him is strangely nice.

“Good! And you’ll see.” Joly says it with another smile, and taps his nose with his cane, which just makes Bossuet start laughing again, and Grantaire join in even if he muffles it a little.

Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, he’s missed this, and for the first time in days, he doesn’t have the nagging feeling that he’s a burden at the back of his mind. He doesn’t feel so jumpy, doesn’t feel like he has to watch every movement in every corner, and he wonders if that shows on his face. It’s nice to let go, just a little, just this once.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly is pretty sure Combeferre is manipulating everything, Grantaire almost thinks he might cry (in a good way this time), and Musichetta has a best friend to meet (again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer!
> 
> The usual warnings apply, though I should also note that there's a brief blink-and-you-miss-it mention of suicidal ideation.
> 
> Thank you all, once more, for all of your comments and kudos, and for reading! :)
> 
> Feel free to come say hey over here on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com)!

Feuilly immediately gets suspicious when Combeferre wheels up to his table, close enough for them to speak quietly, and smiles at him.

"Hey," he says, nodding at the other man, because Combeferre's plans either tend toward brilliant or devious or occasionally both.

"Hello, Feuilly," he replies, nodding back. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he delicately sets a pair of tickets on the table, tapping them with two fingers, his expression as unreadable and neutral as ever. "A friend of mine happened to have tickets she couldn't use. I thought perhaps you and Grantaire could make use of them?"

It's tempting, but he raises an eyebrow all the same, glancing down again and utterly unsurprised to realize that the tickets are for the Musée de l'Orangerie, which has an art exhibit he's been dying to see and well aware he probably couldn't _really_ afford or find time for. "I'm sure it was all very coincidental and spontaneous. You do realize that I'm probably only going to have him for a few hours before Musichetta realizes that her best friend is a teenager and absconds with him, right?"

"Good," Combeferre says dryly, peering at Feuilly over the rim of his glasses. "Then maybe you'll make good use of your night off and sleep."

He snorts at that. "Yeah, maybe. Much as I appreciate it, Combeferre..."

"You should take them," he says, waving a hand briefly. "I know this is right up your alley, and you know he'll love it just as much - and how much he deserves it. Besides, you know my feelings about museums, and I fully claim dibs on taking him to one of the history museums. Art is your area of expertise, my friend."

Feuilly wants to argue, he really does. But he glances over at R, who is listening quietly to Joly and Bossuet, scrunched into the back corner of the room and clearly tense. He doesn't know what happened, still, since all Courfeyrac had told them was that he'd misstepped and that Grantaire might be a little jumpy. But he has his own guess, given the way that Enjolras has suddenly reversed his determination to avoid Grantaire as much as possible and instead stayed outside the Musain to wait for him.

And Combeferre already has the tickets, one way or another, and it's not like anyone else would appreciate them more.

"Fine, you crafty bastard," he finally says with a note of exasperated affection, giving in. "I'll take him."

Combeferre smiles, but it's a little softer, a little more genuine than the faintly teasing, amused one that comes when he's gotten them to go along with one of his schemes. He's still watching Grantaire, his dark eyes a little soft even as they're perceptive and focused. Feuilly shouldn't be surprised that he's secretly a softie for kids, or teenagers, or whatever.

"How's the research going?" he asks, instead of commenting, which he knows wouldn't go over well at all. His, snatched between shifts, has gotten nowhere, other than the offhand suggestion from one of his coworkers that the “plot from a book he's been reading" sounds like a curse.

That gets a fidget with the glasses, which on anyone else would probably be a sigh. "Slowly. I have some connections and thoughts I'm following up, but as you can imagine, it's all very esoteric, all buried in lore. I think I've definitively ruled out a secret government program or rogue secret project, though, much to what I'm sure will be Bahorel's disappointment."

"Dismantling the evil government and punching people who fucked with his friends," Feuilly says, with dry affection. "That would be right up his alley."

Combeferre hums an agreement, but that's about the moment that Enjolras comes in the door with his coffee, look intense and faintly concerned as he glances around to take in the atmosphere.

"That would be my cue," Combeferre murmurs, pushing the tickets towards Feuilly. "Another time."

He smiles, rolls back from the table, and goes to speak with Enjolras, leaving Feuilly to shake his head a little. There's really nothing for it, and he does appreciate the gesture as he picks up the printed off museum tickets and gently tucks them into his pocket. At least it gives them something interesting to do while they wait, because Feuilly refuses to believe that he's not going to get a call at most two hours after Musichetta gets home from her trip.

For the moment, he settles back in his chair and waits for Bahorel to either come over or start speaking, because apparently he has some interesting thoughts to share on the recent riots in Ukraine that Feuilly really wants to hear. But when Bahorel does come over, though, he looks drawn and concerned, only grinning when Feuilly nudges his foot.

"This still has you worried," he says. "Don't think I can take care of him?"

That earns an amused rumble and a more affectionate grin. "Are you kidding? He's either going to freak you out by being so quiet or run you ragged. It just makes me restless, that's all."

Feuilly nods, because he knows by now. He shrugs a little. "Well, we're working on it. Wanna come by tonight and watch films? Good scifi or action flicks if R's around - might not be, because of Musichetta - or that Russian one I was telling you about last time."

Bahorel chuckles, amused. "Your night off and you want me around? I do feel special. Yeah, sure, I'll come by."

And Feuilly isn't surprised, because they share a taste for deep and thoughtful films, in their own ways. (It was the first real fight they had, the one about education, because Feuilly couldn't see why Bahorel didn't study when he could if he cared so much about these things, and Bahorel agreed that everyone should have access but fuck, his brain just didn't work in classrooms and he learned so much better on his own.) And now they watch foreign films and half the time get distracted by talking about the politics or the socioeconomic implications, and it's refreshing.

But he doesn't feel the need to say all of that, just jostles Bahorel with his elbow and rolls his eyes affectionately when he's elbowed back. Cosette takes point in the meeting today, updating them on the developments of another company controversy they've been following after a frankly sexist ad campaign. Beside Feuilly, Bahorel chimes in, because he's been involved in the internet feeds on the subject.

Really, if he wouldn't punch whoever told him, he could brawl nearly as well with words as with his fists, and he would make an excellent lawyer. Feuilly is _not_ going to be the one to tell him that, but he’s more than happy to ask questions about the next step in their projects. From there, it sprawls out from one issue to the next, and eventually starts to wind down because, well, there’s still the R question.

And no one has any good leads, not really. It’s all speculation and following up with family members and friends and mythology and lore books that are something like reputable right now, and it’s frustrating. Feuilly keeps an eye trained on Grantaire, back in his corner, but it’s nearly impossible to read what he’s thinking, his face set in a quiet, absent frown as he listens closely, eyes too passive and too calm.

Which, as far as Feuilly can ever tell, means either that Grantaire’s overwhelmed or that he just can’t bring himself to physically care. Either leaves a bad taste in his mouth because he's just never going to get used to a silent Grantaire and he hopes he never has to. But the kid seems to pick up on the discouraged current in the room and shrinks a bit, so Feuilly rises with a last punch to Bahorel's shoulder and wanders over.

R looks up as he starts to get closer, smiles, and murmurs briefly with Bossuet and Joly before getting up, crossing the rest of the way to meet Feuilly, deftly picking his way around the chairs, dodging the corner of one thoughtlessly. "Hi."

"Hey," he says, and he finds himself smiling, struck by the urge to ruffle Grantaire's dark curls but he doesn't. "You heard you're with me today?"

"I did," he agrees. "Thank you. For, you know, being willing to."

"Anything for a friend," he says, and doesn't miss the way that makes his eyes lighten. He's pretty sure it's a good thing Les Amis already wholesale adopted him a couple years ago, older or younger, because if they hadn’t before, they would have now. "Combeferre "just so happened" to have tickets no one could use for an art museum this afternoon. Do you wanna go?"

Grantaire looks thoughtful, his head tilting ever so slightly, and then he nods at Feuilly's hands when he does speak, carefully. "You're an artist, right?"

"I am," Feuilly says, long since used to R's jumps in conversation and wondering why he's asked, waiting for him to get there.

Chewing his lower lip thoughtfully, R nods again, an answer this time. He smiles, finally, realer and fuller but still subdued. "Yeah. I would like that."

"Great. I've been wanting to, but haven't had the time," Feuilly says, because he remembers Bahorel's furious rant from a couple nights ago now that he sees the tentative hope and interest on Grantaire's face. "It's supposed to be excellent."

"That's cool," he replies, and his smile grows a little more, and he looks up at Feuilly like he's something new and amazing and wonderful. And that's a surprisingly nice feeling.

 

 

Honestly, Grantaire doesn't know what to make of Feuilly. He seems nice enough, but he's quiet, doesn't try to engage him in conversation like the others usually do. It's not that he minds, though - the quiet is a welcome break from the chatter-filled handful of days. This is better than answering questions.

So he hangs back and stays quiet and follows along with Feuilly through the city, shrinking a little closer when they catch the metro because shit, it's full of people, and Grantaire _really_ wants to sit and watch the people going by, he just hates the feeling of being pressed in with them. Feuilly doesn't comment on it, though, just shifts to make a little more space for him and warns him before they get off.

They walk, Grantaire picking his way delicately around tourists, feeling almost dizzy as he sways to avoid them running into him, touching him, but then they're approaching a tall, huge building and he stops. The delicately carved columns are gorgeous soaring Classical dreams, and the arches are sublime, and it's _huge_ and lovely, and he itches to walk around the side to see the giant panels of glass and the dark statues scattered on the lawn. He's caught by it, the blend of classic and modern, of elegant stone and airy glass, the way they slip together seamlessly in a way that doesn’t seem like it should be possible.

"It's a gorgeous building, isn't it?" Feuilly asks from behind his shoulder, and Grantaire nearly jumps, sheepishly turning red.

"Um. Yeah."

Feuilly just grins at him, though, and they head inside and Grantaire is in love. It's more crowded than he'd like, but it's just as open and bright inside, and he knows he's staring. It doesn't stop him from sneering at a couple of young men who snicker at him, giving them bristling look before following after Feuilly down the stairs.

They start with the featured exhibit on Frieda Khalo and Diego Rivera, and Grantaire's interested, but doesn't think he's as captured as Feuilly, who has an intent expression on his face. R's always had a secret love for the impressionists and he'd love to run ahead to see the rest, but he should stay. It's not like he should be so invested anyway, but he's _here_ and there’s only so much time.

Belatedly, he realizes he's been chewing on his lip again, and it's almost raw. He winces.

"Hey," Feuilly murmurs, turning to him, dark eyes calm and without a trace of pity or irritation, and Grantaire feels pathetically grateful. "If you have your phone, you can go explore. You can call if you need me, or I can call you if I need to track you down."

"Are you sure?" he asks, hesitantly, but his heart leaps at the chance to explore the brightly lit halls of the museum on his own, to wander and linger as he pleases. It would be so much better than being rushed through the galleries that made his heart stop and brain stagger and breath halt.

He smiles, broadly enough to crinkle his eyes at the corners a little, and nods. "Go ahead. Okay?"

"Yeah," R says, and if it comes out breathy, it's just because he's keeping his voice quiet. Completing his circuit of the exhibit, he slips out and goes off to explore further.

He is awestruck as he wends his way through the halls, slowly, captivated by brushstrokes and colors that swirl up as if to meet him, and sometimes he just stops and _stares_. R could cry, tipping his face up to better look at a one of the paintings. He doesn't, of course, but it's a close thing, this expanse of paintings that are his to devour and to relish in his own time.

His eyes trace along the contours of lines and he can _see_ things that no picture in a textbook could ever show him. And god, he wants paints or a sketchpad, or something, anything to capture anything of the ideas that are sparking and unraveling in his brain. He doesn't understand how anyone (how his father) can think art is _frivolous_ or _pointless_ when it makes him see and feel so many things that usually seem to be floating just under the surface or just out of reach.

It takes him such a long time to make himself move, to fix the image of one painting in his head before he moves on to the next. And yes, there are a couple that make him wrinkle his nose or just leave him feeling a little passively blank, but then he'll turn a corner and lose his breath all over again. For once, it doesn't feel like it's choking him or pressing the life out of him, but a weightless wonder and just suspends all the rushing in his brain.

Of course it doesn't last, it never does, but the explosion is productive and thoughtful and he starts _seeing_ things in the curls of paint and the tiny changes of color, and he wants to stare at paintings forever. Distantly, bitterly, he reminds himself that he can't, because that's not a job, it's not a _thing_. (Except that he lives - Will live? - in Paris, and maybe he carves time out of his schedule to come to the museums and stare at the paintings and prints and sculptures until he feels less parched.)

He doesn't even know how much time has passed when he's finally had his fill of the hallways, when he finally makes his way through Cézanne and Renoir. Feuilly hasn't texted or called his newly charged phone, though, so Grantaire doesn't feel too bad. And there aren't so many people around now and the pull of the upstairs gallery is too strong to resist now.

His mind a heady mix of excitement and contentment, Grantaire slides up the stairs, pausing again in the main hall. The sky above Paris is still a cloudy, chalky grey, and the light that filters in is a stony pale thing, but it's still indescribably beautiful. The architecture alone is a work of art, all clean and lovely lines, and he stands rooted to the spot for long minutes, because it's just... wow. Just wow.

R is never going to get over the architecture of this building. The lines are just so tasteful and the glass cuts at all the right angles and he is pretty sure that one of the employees is shooting him amused looks. Only when another group of people comes in, chattering quietly, does he move, silently heading down the walkway for the door.

As it turns out, there’s almost no one there at the moment, which means it’s pretty close to just Grantaire and the tall, sweeping murals of Monet’s watercolors. Entranced, he circuits the room, taken in by the colors and the _delicacy_ of it all. He could cry. He’s not entirely sure that he’s not, sometimes. He takes his time, savoring every second, weighing it in his mind, lingering over the colors and the differences between the murals.

Eventually, he just kind of collapses on the bench in the middle of the room in front of his favorite panel and stares, because it’s overwhelmingly beautiful and every little detail just makes joy spark up inside him and he’s aware it’s kind of ridiculous, but _wow_.

He still hasn’t really moved when there’s a quiet scuff of a shoe on the floor, and then Feuilly sits beside him, speaking quietly enough not to disturb anyone else. “Thought I might find you here. You aren’t bored, right?”

“ _No_ ,” Grantaire assures quickly, smile unfamiliarly giddy before he looks away and down. “Sorry. No, it’s… it’s… wow. I just… the way he uses color and then the brush strokes and you can see how it’s put together like it’s meant to and it’s got all this roughness and smoothness and I don’t have all the words I need to explain it and oh, fuck, sorry, I’m rambling, I’ll stop, I can stop, but _wow_.”

“No apologies,” Feuilly says with a soft smile, looking back over at the panel. “I understand; I think I sat here for a couple hours the first time I came in, and I didn’t have the words I wanted either. They do that to people like us, artists.”

He thinks he can imagine it, a younger Feuilly standing in front of one of these paintings, hands probably clasped behind his back and staring awestruck at the details. And maybe the easiness of imagining it is what soothes Grantaire’s building panic about rambling _again_ because fuck how hard is it to string together a complete thought. Or maybe it’s the weightless joy of all the art that’s been sinking into him.

So he nods, slowly and thoughtfully, eyes tracing the line of a lily pad. “They’re exquisite. Everything here is. Thank you.”

Feuilly shrugs. “It really isn’t a problem. I wanted to come out here anyway, and I know you appreciate all of this just as much as I do.”

Grantaire shakes his head, dropping his gaze to his hands, twined tightly so he doesn’t start to fidget again. “… It’s just really nice, having the time to really see everything. And I know it gets boring for a lot of people. So, you know.”

“I know. But you can take all the time you like,” Feuilly tells him, and he nudges R’s arm gently, smiling when he glances up. “Why don’t you tell me a little about what you’re seeing? Why’s this one your favorite?”

He starts a bit, because he knows he can’t condense it all down into something coherent if he can even start to explain at all, but Feuilly nods a touch, encouragingly, so Grantaire smiles back a little, and he starts to talk.

 

 

Musichetta is so glad to be home. She knew that she would be, but it doesn’t really hit her until she’s walking out of the terminal and she spots them. Bossuet’s leaning casually, artfully against one of the pillars, and Joly’s leaning jauntily on his cane, leaving it sticking out at an odd angle that _can’t_ be comfortable but is just so him.

They spot her a moment later; she can see their faces light up as they wave their arms like the dorks they are and call her name. And then she can’t help it, she knows it’s cliché, but she laughs and waves back and calls back and hurries over and crashes into their arms, easily navigating a three way hug. Joly kisses her cheek and Bossuet kisses her temple, and by the time they pull back a little, Musichetta can see in their faces that something is wrong.

“I think,” she tells them, her smile still not fading, “that you both should kiss me really, really well, and then you can tell me what’s going on while we grab my bags.”

That makes Joly laugh, while Bossuet leans in to kiss her, Musichetta sighing happily as she kisses him back, and she would be reluctant to pull back but then she’s kissing Joly just as long and deeply. She can’t stop _smiling_ , and she’s missed this, the way they make her entire self light up. When they start walking, Joly has his free arm wrapped around her waist and Bossuet twins their fingers together.

“So,” she says, looking between them. “What’s the crisis of the week?”

“Right, about that,” Bossuet says, and rubs at the back of his head.

Joly sighs. “Grantaire’s a teenager and we don’t know why.”

Musichetta nearly freezes in place because _what_ , but that part isn’t even important right now and she can tell this isn’t a bad joke because they wouldn’t do that to her. She takes a breath. “Well, if that’s _all_. How old is he and why isn’t he here?”

“He’s fourteen,” Bossuet tells her, and Musichetta relaxes marginally because he hasn’t quite hit the worst part yet and that’s a small mercy. “And he’s not here because he didn’t believe us that you would want to see him, so he’s with Feuilly.”

“Well, R’s being ridiculous, which is nothing new,” she says, automatically, and thinks. “Right, okay, we’re going to go home and I’m going to shower and kiss you both senseless and then we are going to cuddle the _fuck_ out of him.”

“Yes, dear,” they chorus, affectionate rather than mocking, like they knew this was coming and don’t resent it, and oh, she really could kiss them. She’s so lucky to have the both of them and their ridiculousness and kindness. So she tells them that, and earns a pair of kisses in return.

All the way home, they catch her up on their friends and the news and she catches them up on her trip and by the time they’re parking it’s devolved into gasping puns at one another in between giggle fits, and she’s so glad to be home, bursting into another peal of laughter when Joly bows to kiss her hand and Bossuet imitates the gesture with a dramatic flourish. Musichetta shakes her head at them, and steals a handful of kisses before trotting off to shower, torn between the giddy joy of being _home_ with the men she loves and worried about Grantaire.

And she’s sure that they’ve all been doing their best to take care of them, but he’s her best friend and they just don’t understand. They can’t know about the way he tried so hard to stay afloat only to be crushed under the weight of undiagnosed depression. They don’t know what it was like to sit beside him the first time she ever saw him cry, sobbing silently as he crumpled under the weight of too high expectations and a maths assignment that tied his mind in knots. They’ve never seen him stiff and meek under the dismissal of his father’s disappointment or his mother ripping him to shreds in the guise of comforting him.

And, well, he’s R, so they’ve probably seen him wilt halfway through a rant or light up just a little when he’s allowed to go off on one. And they’ve probably seen all the little habits that stick around, but they don’t know him yet, not like she does. Musichetta still remembers the look in Grantaire’s eyes when she started laughing at the pun on his name, so shyly pleased and proud, and how he’d perked up when she started talking about literature. She still remembers how cowed and quiet and impeccably polite he was the first time he came over for dinner and how he’d snuck into her room in the middle of the night to hold her hand when she cried over breaking up with her boyfriend.

Just… fuck. He’s her _best friend_. He’s the one who introduced her to Joly and Bossuet with glee and affection and hope because he always wants to see his friends happy and laughing. He’s already struggling with suicidal ideation, she knows now, something she didn’t know when they were just kids. He’s the boy who doesn’t know what goes into his particular mix of mixed race and pretends it doesn’t cut. He’s the guy who laughed himself silly at Cixous and was the biggest _dickbag_ misogynist when they were sixteen and the same guy who gingerly reached out to touch her shoulder to tell her it was okay to not always feel like a girl all the time before they’d ever heard of queer theory and almost started crying when he finally read Butler’s “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution.”

Musichetta wants him here five minutes ago so she can tell him that it’s all okay, so she can somehow magically make all of his worries vanish and hold him until the anxiety ebbs away again, and they just can’t _understand_.

“Are you alright?” Joly asks her, smoothing his fingers through her hair when she’s seated on the couch, leaning over the back of it.

“A little worried,” Musichetta allows, leaning into his touch a little because she’s missed this.

He hums thoughtfully. “Understandably. This has all been hard on him, but I don’t think it’s been too bad. A lot of being careful but he hasn’t had a panic attack since he first showed up at the Musain. But, Musichetta… was the drinking really so bad already?”

She can hear the frown in his voice and she sighs a little. “Not too bad? More that everyone in his family drinks and he already thinks it’s normal. I wouldn’t even say you could call him addicted for a while yet.”

“He’s _fourteen_ ,” Joly says, sounding sad and pained, and she loves his ability to feel so deeply for children who grew up too fast.

“I know,” Musichetta says, instead, catching his hand and kissing his palm. “Need to talk about it all?”

“Not really,” he replies, thoughtfully. “It’s… Well. It all seems unfortunately self explanatory, given what older R’s told us.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, because she _knows_. “Feuilly’s bringing him over?”

“They should be here any minute,” Bossuet calls from the kitchen as Joly’s cat wiggles its way over into Musichetta’s lap for love.

Sure enough, there’s a knock on the door a few minutes later, and Musichetta can’t believe how _tiny_ Grantaire looks, with the lingering roundness of his cheeks, the softness of his jaw, how clearly he’s a teenager, all awkwardly hunched in on himself defensively and sullenly, and his tumult of dark curls that’s the same as ever. He raises a hand to her in greeting, not quite able to hide the curiosity and uncertainty in his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she replies, and offers him her hand, smiling when he takes it. “I’m Musichetta.”

“Grantaire,” he mumbles. “Or R. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she says, and feels her smile grow as she’s hit with a swell of affection for this boy who will meet her in a year, who’s been her best friend. “And I still love that pun as much as I did the first time you told it to me.”

“You did?” he asks, naked surprise and that same shy pleasure in his face, because no one’s ever liked his puns and wordplay before. He’s stopped being uncertain about them somewhere on the way to twenty-nine, but he still slips them into conversation like he doesn’t notice he’s making them half the time.

She softens, feels her smile ease a little. “I did. I laughed so hard. And then I told you that I liked literature and you told me that you were keeping me.”

“What did you say to that?” Grantaire asks, and it’s not quite a challenge, but he’s sussing her out, feeling out the edges of her, and Musichetta had forgotten and her heart breaks for him all over again.

But he doesn’t need her pity or want it right now, and she knows that very well. So she lets her mouth curl up at the corner and raises one dark brow at him. “I told you to fuck off, and that I was keeping you only if you kept making good puns.”

“Well, apparently I did,” he says dryly, but there’s a hesitancy to him, like he can’t quite believe she’s his _friend_ , not really and not after all this time.

“Oh, R,” Musichetta tells him, and pours all the affection and love she dares into her voice, because this boy doesn’t know, yet, how important he is to her and to all of them. “You still make the _best_ puns.”

 

 

Already, Grantaire likes Musichetta.

She's pretty and curvy, with bright brown eyes and a smile to match Bossuet's and Joly's, her copper toned skin even and clear, dark brows shaped just a little, her black hair falling damp around her shoulders. She doesn't look like someone who could have ever been an awkward teenager who he could find himself face to face with in the halls of the school.

But with her more than anyone, he almost has to believe that they're friends, and good ones. She leaves his favored corner of the couch clear and never moves close enough that he startles, and she grins just a fraction of a second before she manages to surprise a laugh from him.

It's not until she's provoked him into a several minutes long ramble about a book that Grantaire pauses, scowling at her accusingly, because she has to _know_ how he gets and how he starts talking and can't make himself _stop_ and she's just been nodding and listening and he feels suddenly defensive, arms crossed over her stomach. "You did that on purpose."

"Mm-hm." Musichetta doesn't seem smug or even gleeful, though, she just gives him a quiet, affectionate little smile. Grantaire wonders if he's going to have to try to get _used_ to this, to all these people who act like they know him and all his little quirks when he knows _nothing_ about them, and that's a terrifying sort of thought. "It's okay, really. I like your rambles."

"We all do, actually," Joly chimes in, curled up on the opposite end of the couch and shifting to stretch out his leg.

Bossuet's smile is a little softer, a little more understanding somehow, and he pats the armrest next to Grantaire rather than touching his arm. "You'll notice we aren't polite company. So believe us when we say you're allowed to use as many words to make a point as you like, we won't cut you off."

He freezes, because _how_. How could someone touch so neatly, so directly on exactly what it is he always _thinks_ about, a thousand repetitions of "Be _quiet_ , Michel" and "Don't interrupt unless you have something to say," that echo in his brain and how he tries so _hard_ never to be obnoxious and _loud_. How can they always do this to him, catch him out so easily?

Slowly, he tries for a smile and is pretty sure that it's nowhere near meeting his eyes. He drops his hand to his lap, feels the unkempt nails bite into the palms of his hand until he can focus on them again rather than the thoughts tumbling around in his head like a washer. R can't say that, can't agree to that, so he just shrugs a little, and wishes he could tuck himself into a tight little ball in the corner of the couch and block it all out for a while. They're all so _overwhelming_.

Thankfully, they drop it, they don't push, and honestly, this is a big part of why he likes the three of them so much (Musichetta counts, too, because she's like they are and he trusts them as much as he can). Joly asks Musichetta about something she did on her trip, and she starts telling them a story about something that happened to her on the plane and by the end of it, Joly's curled up with laughter and Bossuet's sprawled on the floor and Grantaire has to hide his grin by ducking his head.

In some ways, it's like he's not even there, because they don't make a big deal out of it, talking and chatting and occasionally touching one another seamlessly. Back when Bahorel had first mentioned Musichetta, Grantaire had accepted it, because why not?, but that's so different than seeing the easy way they are with one another. They're openly affectionate and _gentle_ and everything, so open with how much they care, and that's not something he's honestly really seen before.

Grantaire wonders if older him is anything like that with Enjolras. He's still not entirely comfortable with the idea, not sure what to _do_ with it, but he still kind of quietly hopes that maybe they are like this, that they're this important to one another.

For now, he's okay with sitting on the couch and petting the cat and listening to them joke and catch up. It's soothing. For the first time since, well, pretty much since the first night he was over here, he feels like he relaxes a little, like he doesn't have to quite so _careful_.

Once in a while, they'll ask his opinion or direct a comment his way to explain something, and it's occasionally accompanied by something - Bossuet's hand ruffling Grantaire's curls just a little, or Joly nudging Grantaire's knee with his foot and a smile, or Musichetta patting his knee - never long enough to make him start overthinking it all again.

When they do eat, it's unbelievably, easily informal, sprawled out in the living room and not even moving to the table, and R is content to sit quietly and listening to Joly's stories about work until Bossuet directs a grin his way and asks about the museum. Hesitantly, he starts to talk, trying not to go overboard when he answers each of their questions as best he can, and even remembering (reminding himself) to turn the conversation back, to ask about other things.

But for once it doesn't feel as hard, and he finds himself letting go more, because they're happy to talk over one another, to interrupt and it builds up like a crescendo, the three of them building off of one another, like they can read what the others are going to say before they do. He has to look down to hide a smile at that as Musichetta starts to laugh again, and he wonders if they're like this with everyone, if they're always this free with how things are between them, or if it's just here in their apartment.

As the evening wears on, things start to quiet down a little, but only a little, and when they finally clean up, Bossuet offers a hug silently in a quiet moment, and Grantaire accepts, lets himself relax into it just for a minute. But then Joly does the same thing when they others are distracted, and R's found he likes their hugs too much not to accept it as well. Musichetta just smooths down his hair again, and gives him a smile, and Grantaire returns it, rubbing under the cat's chin because she’s crawled into his arms again with a happy purr.

It's only when it's the middle of the night and he can't sleep - the three of them had turned in hours ago but he's been tossing and turning on the couch, too much going on inside his head to stop, until he can't take it anymore and just sits up, curled against the armrest and watching the slow change of the clock - that Musichetta reappears.

"Can't sleep?" she murmurs, her hair a frizzy halo around her head now, and she doesn't look too bothered by it. "I can't either, I'm still off the time."

"No," he says, and shrugs a little, shifting over a little more so that she can sit down.

She takes it, gracefully, not bothering to reach for the light. "Would some tea help?"

He shakes his head. "No thanks. Still too much tea - Marius."

"Ah," she says, with a little bit of a laugh in the word. "Well, let me know."

They sit in quiet for a few minutes, and he's just tired, and this isn't really all that fair, because he's so exhausted but his brain keeps turning things over and over and over, and he suddenly realizes he's frowning and twisting his hands together. Clenching his fists in his blankets, he darts a look at Musichetta.

Look thoughtful, she studies him. "Would you like a hug?"

Part of him wants to say no, but part of him just really _wants_ one right now, because there's just so much going on and there's a part of him that craves it, that touch and affection and attention and he knows it's stupid but he still says, "Yeah. Okay."

Musichetta hugs him, and Grantaire hugs her back. He almost starts to drop back when she holds just a little tighter, and he slumps against her because if she really knows him she probably already knows and he just holds on. It's not the sort of desperate ( _pathetic_ ) clinging he did to Marius, and it's nowhere near the quick, awkward things he usually gets from distant relatives. It's nice. And it's warm, and it's familiar. Musichetta just hugs him without demanding anything in return, and Grantaire finds himself relaxing despite himself, just barely not burrowing closer.

"Thank you," he finally says, softly, into her shoulder, feeling his eyes start to slip closed, like it's all eased a little.

She rubs her thumb in a small circle against his shoulder blade, and doesn't let go just yet, warm and comforting in the darkness. "You're welcome, R. It will be okay."

He doesn’t know that he believes her, but it’s nice to pretend, and sink a little closer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras feels supremely awkward about all of this, Grantaire is feeling overwhelmed, and Combeferre has a knock on his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer.
> 
> The usual warnings all apply. Heads up, we're drawing to the close, too. One more chapter, I think?
> 
> Thank you all, again, for your comments and kudos and everything - it's very motivational and I really do appreciate it all. I hope this one goes over well.
> 
> Please feel free, as always, to drop by on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com)!

Once Musichetta goes back to bed, Grantaire finally falls asleep, tucked up into a tiny ball on the couch, and sleeps deeply until he's finally woken by vague and troubling dreams that leave an aching feeling in his chest. It's not late by any means, and it's still early enough that Joly is the only one of them up, along with the delicate light slipping in past the curtains, the shutters left open.

"Good morning," Joly greets with his usual smile when he notices, his hair an even worse mess than last time, sticking up and out at odd angles, and Grantaire can't help but smile a little. "Would you like some coffee? Perhaps pain au chocolat?"

"Good morning," R says, taking a seat and belatedly trying to smooth down his wild curls. "Umn. Please?"

Joly nods, waving off Grantaire's protests as he rises, hand skittering along the wall again as he goes into the kitchen and returns with a pastry and a cup of coffee, setting them down across from his own. He sits again, leaning over to scratch the cat's ears, and is rewarded by a thready purr. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Yeah. It was okay," he says, thanking him for breakfast and taking a sip of his coffee, still a little bleary from sleep. "You slept well?"

"Very much so, thank you," he replies, cheery, humming a little in approval as he takes a bite of his pastry, savoring it. They sit in silence for a few minutes, eating and soaking in the serenity. Eventually, though, Joly sips the last of his coffee and goes back to petting the cat, who jumps up in his lap. "I have some shopping to do this morning. Would you like to come?"

Normally, Grantaire hates shopping. He doesn't like the questions or the exasperated looks he gets from the adults who have decided he's a hopeless case, but this is Paris and no one knows him here, and he's hardly gotten any dirty looks for the color of his skin. And he's getting restless, shuttling from apartment to apartment, feels useless because he's not _doing_ anything. The least he can do is help carry some groceries, so he smiles. "Yeah, if you don't mind."

"No, I'd love the company," Joly promises, and he sounds so sincere that Grantaire can't help but believe him. He finishes his breakfast and goes to change, coming back to find Joly leaving a note for Bossuet and Musichetta.

It's not as cold as it has been the last few days, but still chilly and a little biting, and they stay bundled up as they walk, taking a slow, easy stroll through the streets. As they walk, Joly narrates, telling R about this building or the people who live in that one, gossiping idly and lightly. It's the strangest experience, to be walking through this slow and sleepy part of Paris as it wakes, in a city he doesn't know with someone he's only just met, but it's the most _normal_ that Grantaire's felt since he woke up here.

When they wander into the market, they don't pick up too much, a bit of this and that - nothing that probably couldn't have waited, other than the vegetables, but it's clear that it's just as much about Joly picking up gossip and getting out as anything else. R realizes, suddenly, that it seems like something he might do, if he had the time and relationships, and wonders if that's why they get along so well.

It's only when they're walking back toward the house, having detoured for bread and staying to chat a bit, that Joly starts to look... not quite nervous, but maybe a little reserved, like he's trying to let Grantaire know that he doesn't have to do one thing or another.

"Enjolras has an open couch tonight," he says, glancing over at Grantaire. "If that's okay with you?"

"Yeah," he replies, shrugging, a little glad that the man didn't back out, and then takes a moment to think about it. The conversation they probably need to have doesn't sound... quite so bad, now. Still faintly terrifying and weird, but not so overwhelming. "That's okay."

Joly smiles, taking Grantaire's words without a fight, which is just so fucking nice after everyone being so _careful_ with him like he can't make up his own damn mind. "I'll let him know. We'll work out the details of everything."

He nods, fidgeting with a loose string in his pocket, wondering so many things but not sure how to ask them, not really, not right now.

They’re comfortable in quiet all the rest of the way back to the flat, and R thinks he likes this, walking with someone and having it be comfortable rather than feeling like he’s waiting, tense, for them to snap at him about whatever it is he did wrong this time. It feeds the little thought in his mind that maybe they _do_ really mean it, that they actually _don’t mind_ all of his obnoxious traits and how he can’t shut up and seems to fuck up every five seconds. He feels guilty for thinking it, because they have every reason _not to_ , and it’s almost scary how much part of him wants that acceptance.

That feeling only grows a little more when they get back and Joly gently reaches over to squeeze Grantaire’s shoulder, and he lets him, and it’s almost ridiculous how much he wants them to keep doing shit like that, too.

When they head back inside, the other two are already up, Joly cheerily waving off Grantaire’s help in putting things away, insisting he doesn’t mind. None of them push him for more hugs, and R’s kind of glad, even though he almost envies Bossuet and Musichetta sprawled out on the couch, her head in his lap while he pets her hair. He ends up curled up in one of the chairs with the cat, who purrs and nuzzles under his chin and he’s never been around cats that much but he wouldn’t mind if it happened more.

It’s solidly in the afternoon when Enjolras shows up, knocking on the door, all those blond curls tucked up behind his head. He greets Joly and Bossuet affectionately and welcomes Musichetta back warmly, but all four of them seem to tense just a little when Grantaire wanders over with his bag over one shoulder, and he shouldn’t but he can’t help it, he snorts a laugh.

“Man, you guys are so _worried_ ,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Look, okay, it’s fine. Alright?”

“Our apologies,” Enjolras says, and he actually does look faintly rebuffed. “I take it you haven’t changed your mind, then?”

And yeah, Grantaire’s still really not sure about this because there’re so many things about this that don’t even _begin_ to make sense, but he just wants to _know_. So he shakes his head. “No, we’re good.”

“Hug first?” Musichetta offers, holding out her arms. Grantaire pauses, then nods, moving into her hold a little stiffly, and he’s still not sure what to do with it when Bossuet and Joly join in, but it’s strangely comforting, all of them shifting to hug him at the same time. When they finally pull back, he’s pretty sure he’s red, thanking them quietly and waving awkwardly before following Enjolras out.

It’s… not exactly awkward. Probably.

Only, Grantaire doesn’t know if Enjolras is normally this quiet when he walks, or if it’s just that Grantaire is there, or that he –that older him – isn’t there, and this kind of sucks. If anything, Enjolras seems just as uncertain, but he keeps pace with Grantaire, and looks over with a quiet smile, and R returns it as steadily as he can.

And for the first time, Enjolras’ smile seems to be a little warmer, a little more familiar, and as they walk, he asks Grantaire about his sketching and it’s not until a few minutes later that it hits Grantaire that Enjolras didn’t ask about his family or home or school like most people probably would, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about that, really. He thinks it might be a good thing, but he just doesn’t know, still, what to make of any of them but especially not this… guy. Who older him is apparently dating. And okay, fuck, yeah, he’s going to ask questions about that.

For now, though, he tries not to sound too shy or awkward when he asks what it is that Enjolras does other than the whole social agitation thing, and just listens. The conversation is still a little stilted, but it’s _something_ , and Grantaire is trying, which has to count for something, right? Maybe?

Either way, it keeps them occupied until they reach a tall apartment building and head up the deserted stairs. It’s a bit posh, but not unreasonably so, and Grantaire’s pretty sure he was right about the whole “wealthy student” thing, which just weirds him out even more because he _knows_ (he’s heard enough times) that someone like _him_ can’t even be anywhere near this guy’s level. He just doesn’t get it. But Enjolras said they could talk, so maybe he can ask, if he can find a way to do that won’t make things just that much worse or make him angry.

Suddenly, as Enjolras is fitting his key in the lock, Grantaire is actually… really nervous. Uncertainty hovers in his throat and his fingers are twisting again, looking for something that isn’t there to fidget with, and he clenches his hand, jamming them deep in his pockets so he’ll _stop_. But he just tries for a smile at Enjolras’ questioning curve of an eyebrow, and follows him inside.

 

 

Enjolras can see Grantaire’s shoulders relax the moment they step inside the apartment. He doesn’t think Grantaire has even noticed how quickly he settles once they’re out of the noise and motions of the streets, where his eyes flick toward every sound and shoulders draw jumpily at every jerky movement. It’s not something he’s ever noticed in his own Grantaire, who is simultaneously more aware _all the time_ , which must be _exhausting_ , and less bothered by it.

He doesn’t comment, though, because he knows it wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, he lets R get settled in and goes to the kitchen to make tea. It’s not even a second thought; he just reaches for Grantaire’s preferred blend, one he hasn’t touched in a few days, and its scent is familiar and strangely comforting as he makes up their cups.

When he returns to the living room, Grantaire is sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have paled, head bowed but clearly looking around with curiosity. Enjolras feels that now-familiar stutter at seeing _Grantaire_ of all people so awkward and uncertain on his couch. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this _angry_ and _helpless_ over one person before, this sort of fury that’s usually reserved for the fucked up policies of the government but is now directed at all the people who have made Grantaireso quiet and hesitant and _wary_ , and he knows Combeferre is worried over it, but has kept quiet. But for now, he just sets down one of the cups on the coffee table and folds himself into the armchair, tucking his legs under himself.

Grantaire offers him a quiet hint of a smile and reaches for the tea, taking a sip and then just holding it, and that’s not new, the way he uses it to warm his hands as he studies Enjolras. Slowly, he sinks back into the couch cushions, settling in more, and he sighs. “So.”

“So,” Enjolras agrees, unable to help the way his mouth curves up just a little at that, amused despite himself. He’s been avoiding this conversation, has been avoiding _Grantaire_ , because he doesn’t know what to make of this, doesn’t want to misstep or startle him. He doesn’t know what would be best to do, realizes how easily he, like Courfeyrac, could say something that would bring R crashing down, and Enjolras isn’t used to feeling so _unsure_.

“Is it alright if I ask questions?” R asks, after a moment, looking down into his cup, fingers tracing idly along the rim of it. “Like, I don’t want to pry, but I just… Fuck, this is weird.”

He can’t help the soft huff of a laugh at that. “You swear more than any other fourteen year old I know.”

Grantaire smiles crookedly. “What, not more than anyone else you know?”

“I do know Bahorel,” Enjolras tells him dryly, and the teenager laughs.

“Yeah, okay, that’s true. But… is it alright?”

Enjolras nods and takes a sip of his own tea, lets the familiarity of the taste wash over him just for a moment. “It’s something that affects you. If I’m not comfortable answering, I won’t. But you can ask whatever you like.”

“Can we refer to older me as him?” His nose scrunches a little. “It’s… weird.”

“We can,” Enjolras agrees, because it _is_ weird, and this Grantaire doesn’t feel like his R in so many ways. “I think I’d prefer that.”

Grantaire sighs, and falls quiet again, for a long while. It’s disconcerting, still, how quiet and intent he goes when he’s struggling for the words. This is another thing that Enjolras never thought to see, eloquent, verbose Grantaire silent and searching for something to say.

When he does speak, he sounds stilted and strange, like it’s something rehearsed. “What are you like? You and him?”

It’s not the question Enjolras was expecting, and it takes him a minute to think about it, feeling his mouth start to curl up in a smile when he speaks, and he wonders if it comes anywhere close to showing how he feels, or if it should.

“We’re… good for one another. Good _to_ one another. We argue, sometimes, but we don’t fight bitterly like we used to. It’s like we fit together in ways I never expected. He understands when I need someone to bring me back to myself or when I need to take a break and be held. And I’ve learned when he needs someone to just sit with him and when he needs to go off on his own. We try to be gentle to one another, though I often feel he’s better at that than I am. Some of our friends are… boisterous, and he is too, but when it’s just the two of us, it’s quiet and comfortable. We talk, and he cooks because he likes to, and we’ll sit together and talk or debate but it’s affectionate. We keep one another steady.”

It doesn’t seem to come anywhere close to the whole complicated, complex, indescribable _thing_ between himself and Grantaire, the way their hands slide together or the way Grantaire _smiles_ at him, not in worship but in thankfulness and fondness or understanding, or the way Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat when Grantaire closes his eyes and relaxes into Enjolras petting his hair, so trusting that he can’t even regret letting this, letting them, become such a solid part of his life.

But Grantaire is currently a teenager, and he’s still processing that, face closed off with thought in a way that looks almost sullen, almost stubborn, and it’s so clearly a _defense_. “… Your friends said it took you guys a long time to get together. What changed?”

Enjolras catches that, the subtlety of _your_ friends, not _our friends_ or even _they_. He wishes, suddenly and not for the first time, that R could understand how _important_ he is to all of them. But he knows that to point it out wouldn’t help right now, so he considers the question instead, and sighs softly.

“He and I didn’t get along at first,” he says, finally, aware that he has to be so incredibly careful, that talking to R about this will be even more daring and delicate than trying to sway a crowd in their favor, and it feels like even more of a risk. “He was always so certain that the world couldn’t change, and it took me a long time to realize that didn’t mean he didn’t wish it could. We fought, finally, about something I’d asked him to do that didn’t go well, and I was… harsh about it. And neither of us was very good about talking about our feelings, which complicated it. But we did talk, eventually, and we started having more _discussions_ than anything. It was slow, as they said, because we were both uncertain, but a few months ago, we started to try because it’s hard not to, when someone cares about you that much, and you care about them that much.”

It doesn’t sound that significant, when he says it like that, but he’s not sure that this Grantaire would want to or could stand to hear the tumult of their tentative search of one another, one that culminated in a realization like a clap of thunder and the way they’ve reached this comfortable spot after a careful, slow trying it out. Enjolras doesn’t think he can even find words for it, but he watches R consider it, the way his brows furrow painfully and then ease with something softer at the end, that little hint of amazement and wonder that he _always_ gets when he thinks he’s glimpsed something, that he somehow has something that’s too good to be true.

He doesn’t say that, though, and Grantaire’s expression shutters again, a little hollow and _painful_ , and he says the words like he’s afraid they’ll trip off his tongue if he’s not careful, like he’s trying to hide the current of deeper questions under the one. “… So why me? Him.”

This is perhaps an even more delicate subject, but it feels easier, because this is something that Enjolras knows how to explain, and smiles without even thinking about it, hopes he looks even a fraction like Grantaire looks when he talks about Enjolras. “He’s a good person under the gruffness – kind, compassionate, and so _intelligent_ that I can barely follow sometimes. Even when he was so sure that nothing could change, he would take care of the people around him and do his best by them, especially the people who didn’t expect it, who were forgotten and pushed aside. And he’s so gentle – you are too, for that matter. You try so hard to make things easier for others, and he’s the same way. He cares so much, too much sometimes, and it hurts him, but he never resents others for it.”

But Grantaire just shakes his head, like he can’t believe that’s true or like it unsettles him somehow, and watches Enjolras with those wary, sharp eyes barely hiding the fear and insecurities of a teenager who has so little to give. “… But you could do so much better.”

“I really couldn’t,” he says, and he lets himself be a little stronger in this because it’s an argument he’s had with older R before. “I don’t care about status or skin color or what my parents and their friends might think. I care what they mean to him, and how they affect his experiences, but it’s nothing I would ever reject him for. He doesn’t see it all the time, but he’s _brilliant_ at what he does, and he’s so much more loving and kind than he thinks he can be, and he’s beautiful. Not in spite of anything, but because he’s perfect. I think he’s perfect, even with all of his mistakes and missteps and flaws, he’s perfect, and I only want to see him smile, to see him happy, because he deserves that.”

Grantaire takes in a soft breath, mouth a little open and eyes a little wide, but he doesn’t look frightened or angry or upset, only surprised and confused. Expressions flit over his face too quickly for Enjolras to read them but he knows it means his mind is racing, running in so many different directions at once with the same information. “… Have I changed that much?”

Enjolras shakes his head, his tea starting to cool in his hands, but he doesn’t move to set it down. “Not that much. Older you has had a chance to learn things you haven’t, yet, and it hasn’t all been easy. He’s had more time to come to terms with the information we’ve, I’m afraid, overloaded you with. And going on medication for his anxiety and his depression have helped him to feel less overwhelmed, and while I’m proud of him for the steps he’s taken, that still hasn’t fundamentally changed him.”

His face is doing it still, twitching and contorting like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and he’s knotted his fingers in his sweatshirt, his own cup set aside. He takes a slow, hiccupping breath, mouth trembling a little, before he settles thoughtfully and slowly nods. “I… don’t know if I believe that part, just yet. But… you really sound like… it seems like… You love him?”

“I love him very much,” Enjolras says, softly, and he can’t keep the pain out of his voice this time. “And I miss him dearly.”

Grantaire nods, again. He’s quiet for a very long time, mulling it over, hunching over to rest his elbows on his knees as he thinks. It’s a long time before he looks over at Enjolras, but when he does, it’s with a tentative, quiet smile. “Okay. And… thank you.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, and means it, but the ache is still there.

 

 

Surprisingly, for having spent most of the afternoon and evening talking about what were awkward and probably sensitive subjects, Grantaire doesn't feel quite so uncertain around Enjolras anymore, let alone uncomfortable. It isn't like he suddenly has to decide he's gay or bisexual or whatever, anyway, and he just isn't even going to deal with all of that right now, and the point is that he can maybe be okay with his older future self maybe being that way. And yeah, Enjolras hadn't offered to show him pictures or anything, and has been careful not to touch him, and well, he guesses the whole suddenly-fourteen thing probably has the man all skittish and shit, but Grantaire has eyes.

He’s looked around the room, seen the picture of Enjolras and his older self on the desk, their clasped hands on the table the only point of contact but their faces soft. And, okay, so Grantaire has finally figured out how to work his older self's phone a little and has been going through the pictures after Enjolras finally went to sleep and it’s just him on the couch and in the darkness of the night. There are a lot of shots of Les Amis in there, candid or posed, and a lot of Enjolras framed softly by the light or laughing, and even R has to admit it looks like the picture-taker is smitten with the guy. So apparently his future self really is in love, but it seems like Enjolras is in love with him, too, and it's not like it's Grantaire's problem.

But it's... okay, well, it's a little nice, if totally weird, to know that someone will love _him_ , that he'll love someone else that much, even if R's all the wrong sort of person. Grantaire has to pause at that thought, because, shit, does future-him even _talk_ to his parents anymore? Do they talk to him? Or have they cut him off when they learned about... everything? Or will they finally stop trying because he just can't do _anything_ right, and that's why future-him is doing all sorts of things R's never thought he could do?

Thinking about it makes his muscles clench and breath shake. So he tries not to, distracts himself in the morning and until they all pile back over in the Musain to catch up or debrief, and he suddenly feels very out of the loop.

Éponine sits at his table, though, and Bahorel, and they're a familiar and comforting presence. Not that they others _aren't_ , but they at least distract him from the fact that he's done nothing to help figure out why he's here. It's not much, though, because Grantaire's not entirely useless at paying attention. He listens, and he knows they have no fucking clue why or how he's here, and they're all starting to look concerned and discouraged.

The thought creeps up tightly in his throat, because what if they give up? What if they give up on _him_ and he doesn't have anything and it's just him in this weird, familiar-but-not-really-actually future where he's just... nothing. Grantaire suddenly feels very, very alone. Éponine seems to notice, though, and nudges his arm, and so does Bahorel, who clasps his shoulder briefly, so that's something.

There's a free form discussion, today, and it's mostly Éponine talking about things that Grantaire hasn't even realized count as racism, which is really cool and thought provoking, and Bossuet adds in things that were starting to dance at the edge of his mind and he almost wishes he could know more about what they were talking about. He stays quiet, though, because opening his loud mouth never gets him anywhere, and maybe he can ask someone else later.

But more and more people start chiming in, though Grantaire notices Enjolras listening quietly in the back, until it's just chatter, and people start moving to break into groups or catch up on other things.

It's not that he doesn't like the hugs or the brief, casual touches of affection, really. Grantaire actually wants them embarrassingly badly, kind of wishes that he could just hug Jehan back and hold on for hours until this aching emptiness fills back up, or hug Marius again because he never holds on too long. It's so _nice_ , to have any contact with anyone, and he's okay with it.

Now, though, it seems like someone's coming over to pat his shoulder or ruffle his hair or hug him every minute or two, except for Courfeyrac, who's still being unnervingly cautious, and Enjolras, and Combeferre. Grantaire almost feels ridiculous that it bothers him, because it's never much or for very long, but it's starting to make him fidget and squirm because it's _too_ _much_ and he doesn't know what to do with it or what they _want_ from him. It's making it hard not to breathe too fast or press back into the corner.

" _Stop_ _it_ ," he blurts out, after Cosette has just touched his arm to ask him a question, and he feels himself turning dark red, his shoulders hunching, but it's just _too_ _much_ and he _can't_ , and that cottony feeling is starting to blur his head again. "Stop touching me, _please_."

They all draw back a little, and Grantaire cringes until he realizes that they're just trying to give him space and suddenly he wants to cry.

"Sorry," he mutters, embarrassed, ducking his head and pulling in on himself even more, trying to look anything but frightened because fuck that. "It was just a lot."

"It's alright," Cosette says softly, her hands folded on her knee. "I'm sorry, we should have been asking."

Grantaire shakes his head. "No, it's okay, I don't mind, it was just too much all right then."

"R," Joly says, taking a seat across the table, leaning on the table until he can meet Grantaire's eyes. "It really is okay. We want you to be comfortable, and it's okay to tell us to back off. That's perfectly within your rights, and we won't be offended. Do you just need us to stop for a while?"

Feeling a little of the sharp jittery edges ebb away, he takes a slow, controlled breath, and he nods. But they're all watching him nervously now, though they don't seem upset by his answer, and R feels suddenly like the walls are pressing in and he shifts back towards the corner again.

"Grantaire?" It's Combeferre's voice that breaks the suddenly subdued air, crossing the room halfway. "Would you like to go, for now? We have tentative plans for tomorrow, as it is."

Grateful for the out but embarrassed that he needs it, he keeps his eyes lowered as he nods, weaving his way past everyone else and making what feel like the most awkward goodbyes ever as he follows Combeferre out into the hall, because maybe they don't _hate_ him but they're going to realize he's fucked up and high-maintenance and that will be the beginning of the end.

Combeferre doesn't say anything about what happened, though, simply makes sure R's following before he takes a small side corridor, looking up to give him a brief, wry smile when they reached the tucked back room with an elevator. "I hope you don't mind?"

"Uh, no, not at all," Grantaire says, shifting his weight to his other foot, feeling his nails press harshly against his palms. "I mean, I guess I should have realized there was one back here, but I didn't notice it before."

"Joly likes taking the stairs when he can," the man says, as the doors ding and open. "I'm not surprised you all didn't take it the last few times."

They're quiet until they exit the Musain, out into the cold again, and it's a few more blocks before Combeferre speaks again.

"I know older-you likes to walk when he's feeling agitated," he says, without judgment or really anything other than a quiet familiarity, as though he can't see the way Grantaire is holding himself tightly, still feeling keyed up. "If that would help, I wouldn't mind sitting and reading while you took a few laps of the park."

"That would be alright..." Grantaire agrees slowly. "If you're sure."

Combeferre is sure, apparently, and settles in with his novel while Grantaire sets off along the path, looking up occasionally at the bare skeleton branches of the tress, nearly black against the pale sky over Paris. He waits until he's nearly out of sight before he sinks down into a crouch, his back against a tree trunk, and buries his face in his knees.

It's too much. It's all too much, being here, when they're so kind and strange and _new_ , it's making his head spin and he just can't keep _up_. He can't take it. He can't _do_ this and he just wants to climb under the covers and sleep and not _move_ because it's so hard. His chest clenches with the shaky, aborted breaths, and he cries as quietly as he can, but each sob shakes him jerkily. He's crying hard and messily and it's _gross_ , but he can't even bring himself to care right now.

Grantaire cries as long as he dares before he thinks Combeferre might notice he's not back and start to worry, then leverages himself up painfully, wiping at his eyes roughly with the sleeves of his hoodie. By the time he gets back to the man's chair, parked by the bench, he's managed to start breathing normally again, and his eyes are scrubbed red but dry, and he thinks he can pass it off as the cold. Combeferre, if he notices, doesn't comment on it when they start back for the street.

 

 

Combeferre can tell right away that Grantaire’s been crying, but he’s not surprised. All of this has to be overwhelming, and it’s been incredibly apparent that the teenager isn’t used to this much attention, let alone attention that’s so positive. He wishes, a little, that there was more that he could do, but Grantaire seems to be alright now with the silence, so he simply keeps an easy pace through the quieter streets on the way back to his flat.

He asks if there's anything Grantaire needs when they get back, but he's unsurprised when the teenager shakes his head quietly, and they end up moving to the couch. Combeferre leaves his chair by the side, wincing a little at the protest in his knees and back as he shifts himself over onto the couch with a quiet hiss of effort.

Grantaire sits at the other end, as though he can fold himself into the arm of the couch and the cushions, and watches him curiously, brown eyes still quiet and thoughtful. He doesn't make a face though, and he doesn't seem surprised, or ask questions, just seems to take it in stride.

Now that Combeferre thinks about it, Grantaire hadn't when they'd first met either. He asks, sometimes, if he can help reach something, but never seems to tense for movement whenever Combeferre levers himself up or onto his crutches. He doesn't mention that, though, only settles back against the couch with a sigh, feeling his joints resettle themselves again.

"Would you like to talk about earlier?" Combeferre offers, cataloging Grantaire as subtly as he can.

The teenager just drags his teeth over the inside of his lower lip, nearly bloody, and slowly shakes his head. He's quiet for a long moment, processing out what he wants to say, more familiar now but still a touch eerie. He sighs.

"It's... I don't mind it, the aff-... the hugs," Grantaire says, carefully, like his words are landmines, like he's afraid of what they'll set off. His fingers just barely keep from drumming on the edge of the couch arm. "It was just that it was all at once and everything."

"As long as you aren't uncomfortable," Combeferre says, as gently as he can, because fear sings in every line and aborted movement Grantaire has made since he first peeked uncertainly through the door of the Musain's back room.

Grantaire shakes his head again, and this time there's an intensity to his silence, and he speaks like he's finally putting something into words, and it's remarkably like watching some new idea dawning on Enjolras’ face.

"I don't know how this happened, or how it works. Like, if I'm just Grantaire made fourteen through memory and shit, or if I was pulled forward in time, or, fuck, if we switched places," he says, with a sweeping, elegant flourish of his free hand, brows starting to furrow a little with thoughtfulness. "And if I go back to normal - however that works or whatever, I don't even know, I mean, assuming I go back to normal - I don't know if I'll remember, you know, any of all of this, or how well."

He pauses, and then finally, shyly meets Combeferre's eyes.

"I hope I will. I'm glad for all of this. I mean, yeah, it's been hard and kinda shitty and there's so much _stuff_ it's like my head's being jammed full and I'm still like fifty fucking meters behind all of you, but... I've always thought..."

His eyes drop again, his fingers just petting over the fabric of the couch as he falters just for a moment.

"I always thought that it was something wrong with me, not the world. And that's a really weird idea, that it’s the other way, but I want to hold on to it. If I can. Even the stuff that I can't... that I'm... the things that I'm not quite okay with yet. But, like. Seeing this. I never thought I could have... this. Any of it. People, you know, or shit like hugs and stuff. So it's nice. And maybe I'm shitty, because I don't... I don't miss home as much as I probably should? But if I go back, I wanna hold on to this. It would... I think it would be okay, if I could get used to this."

His face splits into a brief, breathless grin not quite hidden by the way he ducks his head as he continues, "And I'm gonna meet _Musichetta_ if I don’t fuck it up and for the first time I'll have a _friend_. That's not the point, though. I guess. The point is, even if I don't remember when I go back or if I-as-fourteen-year-old-me doesn't actually exist back fifteen years ago and I'm just a... construct thing and I technically die or cease to exist or whatever when this time's me comes back, I'm glad I get to know this now. To know about... all the things like this. But I'm rambling and shit, sorry, but. So. You know."

Grantaire looks embarrassed again, his face starting to scrunch up already, but Combeferre just nods. He wishes he could say something that would make those anxieties ease as he watches that tentative unfurling of hope and idealism in his face. Here's the Grantaire he's been expecting, who's been hiding all those thoughts under the silence of someone who doesn't know how _not_ let his ideas spiral out and grow.

"I know," he says. "That hardly sounds strange at all. It doesn't have to all make sense, Grantaire. Don't forget that most of us have had several more years to work the thoughts all out in our heads, and you're in a much more complicated situation than most of us were when we found out that things are more than we were told. But I’m glad it’s okay."

He looks for a moment like he's going to snarl something teenage and defensive about it, but Grantaire pauses, his head tilting a little as he studies Combeferre before he grins, still a little closed off but genuine. "The weird thing is, I think you actually mean it. Yeah, okay."

Combeferre smiles back, but Grantaire seems content to fall quiet again. They end up watching nature documentaries, and Combeferre isn’t quite sure whether it’s the stream of information or the clarity of the cameras that has Grantaire so rapt and attentive, his fingers tracing and trailing patterns along the arm of the couch, but either way, it seems to settle him. He goes _soft_ and young and small with that quiet edge of wonder that brightens his face, and Combeferre feels himself soften at that, because Grantaire looks more vulnerable than he’s ever been, contorted awkwardly on the couch and watching documentaries with bright eyes, like a child for once.

It’s adorable and it’s amusing and it’s heartbreaking.

He doesn’t say that, though, doesn’t text the thought to Courfeyrac or Enjolras, simply watches and thinks. They end up eating leftover carry away and that really should not make Grantaire look as delighted as it does, and Combeferre would be more surprised if he hadn’t heard Bahorel’s scandalized, good-natured grumbling about older Grantaire eating cold leftovers all the time.

But Grantaire seems to take the break for food as an opening for conversation, twirling stir-fried noodles up on his fork as he looks at Combeferre from the corner of his eye, as if that will somehow disguise his interest. “What am I like? Older me?”

Combeferre considers for a moment, but he already knows what he’s going to say. “You’re gentle.”

“Gentle,” R says, a little flatly, a little skeptically, sounding almost disappointed, but in himself rather than Combeferre’s short description.

He just watches him for a moment, lets his brows curve up a bit, and speaks softly when he finally does. “There are many intelligent people, and passionate people, and even kind people. But I think the world would be better off for more people who are gentle.”

Grantaire doesn’t seem to know what to do with that, attempting a scowl but mostly just looking thoughtful as he turns red and looks down, turning his attention back to his food.

After, when they’ve set everything aside, Combeferre takes a chance and holds out an arm. “Would you like a hug?”

He nods, almost shyly, and leans in for one. Somehow, he ends up tucked up against Combeferre’s side, a little needy, and Combeferre wants to hold him closer still. They sit like that for a while, until Grantaire stifles a yawn in his sleeve, drooping a little as though he’s worn out, and he curls a little closer to Combeferre’s side. He’s fallen asleep within half an hour, sliding down so that his head is resting on Combeferre’s leg, tucked into loose ball, all the tension gone from his back and his shoulders and his face.

Combeferre smiles and smooths down Grantaire’s tangle of curls, but it’s a little painful, because he looks so _young_ like this, younger than fourteen, and more innocent than he is.

They can’t have been there long when there’s a knock on the door, and Combeferre has no idea who it might be, but it’s better to answer than have them wake Grantaire, and he manages to maneuver his way free without shifting the sleeping teen too much, tucking one of the throw pillows under his head. He pulls himself up, leaning his weight on his forearm crutch as he drapes a blanket over Grantaire before limping over to answer the door, a little wary.

On the other side is someone tall and willowy and sharp faced, all of Enjolras’ beauty and Courfeyrac’s shifty cunning written over fine features and taken to the next level. The casual lean against the wall and the jeans and black jacket they wear are belayed by the strange, subtle _otherness_ , the sense that something doesn’t fit quite right. “Good evening, m’sieur.”

“Good evening, monsieur,” Combeferre replies evenly, suspicious.

The person, probably male but he doesn’t think to presume, smiles as though they know something Combeferre doesn’t. “You’ve been searching for answers and I happen to have them for you. See, I dropped by to check on him, but since you’ve kept me out, I thought this might be a good a time as any to speak. May I?”

“… I’ve kept you out?” Combeferre asks, with a deliberately slow arch of a brow, and they nod at the top of the doorframe. He recalls, suddenly, the iron nail he’d found when he moved in and placed, better safe than sorry, over the lintel. His brow arches a little more as he looks at the faerie. “Ah. Well. Then before you come in…”

“I take no offense,” they say lightly, looking more amused and pleased, like Combeferre is a particularly clever cat. “I vow on my name I will not harm you or any of your group, nor cause any of you harm, nor cause harm to come to any of you, and I vow it thrice. I vow it, I vow it, I vow it.”

Combeferre doesn’t know enough about fae lore to be entirely secure, but the wording seems carefully airtight, and he knows three and names are important. He’s a little suspicious at the easiness of it, but he reaches up nonetheless and takes the nail off the lintel, tucking it into his pocket. “Would you like some tea?”

“With milk, if you have it,” they say, and follow him to the kitchen, taking a seat elegantly at the table. They watch Combeferre with unsettling weight, but it’s better, he thinks, than them watching R, still asleep on the couch, and he returns with tea, taking his own seat. “I prefer he, by the way, if we’re assigning pronouns.”

“That will work.” He doesn’t touch his cup, though, cautious and sharp. “You said you had answers?”

“Oh. Yes.” The faerie shrugs, and smiles. “I did it. He’s fine, no ill effects.”

Combeferre, somehow, isn’t surprised at this point, only nods. “Might I ask why?”

“You may, and I’ll even answer.” His smile is strange and his eyes don’t seem to sit right in his face as he leans forward a little. “I heard a mother wishing for her child to be back what he was before his fall from grace and I got curious. Only to find him happier and seemingly so much _better_ than the little boy asleep over there, so small and so _broken_. Do you know how human wishes pile up? They sit in the air like dead things: his pretty boyfriend wishing he could understand _why_ , all of you wishing he could see, that you could see, him wishing for a break, a little boy wishing for so many things he couldn’t name. Very well, I granted them.”

His eyes flare up, vicious and protective, vindictive and impish, his teeth bared in a sharp smile.

“What better way to grant her wish?”

It’s cruel, and fitting, when he thinks about it, to grant her wish and make sure she never sees it done, to leave them to pick up the pieces of knowing what Grantaire never told them. It makes sense, in a very twisted, very fae sort of way, and Combeferre understands much better the litany of protections and admonitions. He files that away, and focuses on this, because missing any small thing could be dangerous. “And will you turn him back? Are there conditions to be fulfilled?”

That makes him laugh, brightly and strangely, with a shrug of the shoulders, smiling sharply at Combeferre. “Oh, yes. I like you. You are the sort of boy to remember a story and put a nail over your door for safety; he is the sort of boy who left milk and bread by the back wall in case the neighbors were hungry. That’s the sort of thing we _notice_ andremember. Does every adventure need a moral and a condition? Would you feel better if he only needed to learn something? No, it’s nothing so _complex_. He’s been happy, hasn’t he? And your questions are answered. Even we can just want to do something nice sometimes. I’ll put him to rights in a day or two.”

Combeferre keeps composed, and he nods, glance straying over to Grantaire, small and unguarded and trusting, and then looks back. It could be so much worse, and gratefulness bursts in his chest, and he just hopes that this will all come out right. “Your point is well taken, and I’ll thank you.”

He laughs again, and rises, tea finished, eyes as narrow as a cat’s and sharp and gleeful as a knife. “You’re so cautious! We will see and we will see. I’ll leave you to your vigil and your thinking. You’ll get him back, never fear.”

Soundless, without even a whisper of fabric, he turns and pauses only once, to look over at R, and then steps out the door, shooting Combeferre one last knowing, teasing look. His jaw is clenched tight and his muscles shaky as he closes the door and replaces the nail, feeling toyed with and only very nearly out of danger. And yet, it seemed as close to the truth as they’re ever going to get. As long as everything works out without harm, as long as they get Grantaire back as unharmed as he can be (and the sick feeling of the unintentional violations of privacy and sovereignty leaves a bad taste in Combeferre’s mouth).

He sighs, and rubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers. Well, if they’ve been playthings, the game has been relatively harmless, if eye-opening. It’s something, when there are fae involved, when hours ago he wasn’t even sure if they would ever know anything.

It’s late, and Combeferre should go to bed. Or he should call some of the others and tell them what’s happened. But he collapses down on the couch as carefully as he can, instead, and smiles softly when Grantaire shifts almost instantly toward his warmth with a sleep-filled murmur, and strokes down his hair as he tries to untangle his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that happened. I'm aware that I'm largely drawing from Celtic traditions, but, hey, who ever said that fae can't emigrate? They do like to meddle. (ETA: That is supposed to read Irish Celtic, whoops. I didn't notice I'd left that out, sorry!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine tries to do one last nice thing, Grantaire tries to fit things back into place, and everything starts to go back to something like normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual disclaimer and the usual warnings apply.
> 
> Wow, we're at the end already, amazingly. I hope that this has been as enjoyable for all of you as it has been for me, and hope the ending was worth waiting for. Thank you all, again, so much, for your comments and likes and kudos and everything else, and for reading. I really do appreciate it, and appreciate all of you.
> 
> As usual, feel free to stop by on [tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com), I always love to chat, talk, and hear from people!

Éponine doesn't miss the way that Grantaire is careful to greet them all in the morning and to accept each carefully offered hand or hug. She might not have missed the meeting the day before, but she'd certainly heard all the fallout afterwards - really, what the fuck did they _expect_ would happen, crowding a kid like R that much. But there's something else strange in his face that she doesn't know what to do with, or the way that Combeferre seems a little on edge too. If there's more fucking drama, she's throwing the three fucking leaders of their little group into the Seine.

But, no, apparently not necessary. Grantaire sits in his usual spot in the back corner, and Éponine is glad she dropped down by Bossuet and Joly today. Despite whatever they're not saying yet, Combeferre must have done something right because Grantaire seems so much less wound up, more attentive and less watchful.

"We know what happened," Combeferre announces as blandly as the weather, and Éponine is pretty fucking sure he couldn't have made more of an impression if he'd thrown a glass at the wall.

It's Enjolras who speaks, as he usually does when they've all fallen silent. "And?"

Combeferre sighs. "I expect, given that Grantaire is currently a teenager, you'll refrain from telling me that I’m delirious right away. We had a guest last night. A faerie, I gather, judging from the fact that he was apparently unable to enter until I took the iron nail off the lintel, as well as several other details. Grantaire will be his usual age again in a day or two."

"Wait," Bahorel says, skeptical. "Okay, fine, fuck, faeries, sure, why the hell not. But why the fuck _R_? And this?"

He's got a point. But Éponine knows Grantaire. Or at least, she knows him well enough to know that he's going to be pissed off or mortified when he's back to normal, if he remembers, especially if they're treating him like glass. Especially because they know - or might know, Éponine doesn't know what everyone else has pieced together but it has to be enough - about his family, about all the things he's tried so carefully to hide. And fuck that shit.

She leans over, where Grantaire has a tight, hard grip on his knees, and speaks quietly. "Fuck this shit. Y'wanna make a run for it?"

Startled, he looks at her, then almost smiles as he nods, relieved. He makes quiet goodbyes to Joly and Bossuet, and then rises when Éponine does, slipping out the door, though Grantaire does pause to wave at them all and shoot them a grin that teeters between defiant and embarrassed when everyone stops to watch them. She doesn't, though, just leads the way out of the Cafe Musain and doesn't stop for a few blocks.

"Okay," she says, looking over at him. "You've got a day or two left in Paris. What do you want to do?"

Grantaire looks almost surprised to be asked, mulling it over. Then he grins up at her, a little mischievous, a little conspiring, and she's reminded abruptly of Gavroche. "Can you show me your favorite parts of the city?"

Éponine likes Paris, knows her way around it well, but she doesn't love and live it the way that Grantaire and Gavroche do, is better with the _flow_ of the city than the way it maps out under her feet. But she loves it well enough for this, to show him the spots that will make him light up in a way that's strangely foreign even when he's older.

"Yeah," she agrees, because this is what she's learned with Les Amis. Family, especially if formed from friends, is important, but making choices is more so. And they'll get over it even if they don't get to say goodbye to this version of R, but he, the one who's fourteen and stubborn and with so much fucked up shit already in his life, only has this one chance to make a choice about what he's doing, and she wants him to remember that.

The way he smiles, real and shy and _anticipatory_ , makes her think she's made the right decision. She grins back and leads him off down the road, thinking of all the little nooks and crannies and doorways where Grantaire - the older one - would probably drop down with his sketchbook and a cigarette to sketch and watch people, the offbeat little places that shelter and provide some sense of safety. Éponine thinks that of any of them, Grantaire would appreciate that.

She shows him all those places, and more, takes him over streets that should trip him up over cobblestones and through busy and through silent roads. He listens, too, to her stories and anecdotes like he’s hanging onto every word, and sometimes just stops to stare for a while when they stumble across some neat bit of street art painted on the walls. They trace their way through narrow, twisting paths, where dust seems to have nestled in the worn out corners of the city, and the unexpected patches of brightness and bustle, and he takes it all in breathlessly.

“You really do like this city, huh?” Éponine asks, as they wend their way back towards larger roads.

Grantaire looks a little bashful, but he shrugs, not looking at her, still looking up the long line of a building with admiration. “It’s so _old_ , and full of things. There’s something new all the time, and it shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s like there’s all these years of things built on top of one another here, and yeah, a lot of the history is _shitty_ , but it’s beautiful. I dunno, I just feel like I could spend years discovering it.”

She reaches over and ruffles his hair. “You’ll get the chance.”

He grins up at her, eyes bright for once. “I know, isn’t that great?”

“Y’know, it really is,” she says, fond, because it is, and she _knows_ , and then she leads him down toward a market where she knows they can get something to eat for cheap.

By the time the sun starts to set, early in the evening, they’ve traipsed through every place she can reasonably want to show him, and have found their way to a lesser-used bridge. Éponine swings up to sit on the railing, and after a moment of debate, Grantaire joins her, looking out at the water, the sky all a dusky, orangeish pink.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, quietly, tucked tightly into his coat and watching the shifting lights on the water and the streets.

Éponine just shakes her head a little. “Nah, kid. That was good.”

He, surprisingly, doesn’t bristle at the “kid” comment, which she’d thoughtlessly tagged on like she does to Gavroche when she sees him. “Still. There’s not really something else I’d have rather done if I’m going to presumably be older again soon.”

“That was the point,” she tells him, knocking her arm against his and earning a laugh. It makes her realize, abruptly, that it’s the first time she’s heard him laugh as a teenager, and maybe it’s not as bitter as older-R’s tired laughter, but it’s not as full and bold and _vibrant_ as it can be these days either. She’s not sure if that should make her smile or make her sad, but it’s both at once, in a way.

“Éponine?” he asks, after a moment, something she can’t place coloring his question. “Am I happy? When I’m older?”

And she gets it. She really does get it, as much as she can, because she doesn’t have the weight of depression, of anxiety, of alcohol on her shoulders, but she does have memories that hunt and haunt and idealism that smashed down at her feet like a thrown vase, and she’s spent years proving to herself that she damn well deserves to be happy, to take care of herself. “Yeah. I mean, it’s still hard, and you have bad days and older you will probably be pissed at me for saying so, but we try to make them less awful however we can. But for the most part? Yeah. You’re happy, and you like what you do, and you’re one of the best friends any of us could ask for.”

Grantaire’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, his fingers twisting the fabric of his jacket again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, because there’s nothing else to do, and she’s not sure she wants to know, exactly, what prompted that question. He nods and falls quiet, still staring off the bridge, and she lets him be.

But for the moment, it’s starting to get cold and he’s shivering a little, so eventually she swings down from the bridge and slings an arm around his shoulders when they start walking again. It’s not far to her apartment and she tosses a blanket at Grantaire before texting Bahorel, telling him that she’ll buy if he brings over take away and some good action or sci fi movies to watch. He texts back a few minutes later to say that he's on his way and she flops down on the couch with Grantaire to wait.

It doesn't take Bahorel long to show up with a loud call of greeting, agreeably bearing movies and food. Éponine snags the movies from him, going to set up the films while he unpacks the take away, Grantaire leaning back against the couch to watch them.

"Do you guys do this often, then?" he asks, dryly, as though they're humoring him. Which, they kind of are, but Éponine refuses to think that's a bad thing.

Bahorel shrugs. "More with the group, but never watch apocalyptic or dystopian sci fi with Prouvaire, he's fucking obnoxious about it."

"Loves it to death," Éponine tells R, finding the remote and digging it out from between the couch cushions. "Which is fun, until he starts going on about the nature imagery, and then Combeferre starts up and sometimes you just wanna watch stuff get blown up."

"Damn straight," Bahorel drawls, combing his hair back out of his face, roughly.

She snorts. "So, congrats, you just get us. It'll probably get loud. Oi, Bahorel, did you get my curry?"

He hands it over, and she hits play before digging in, Grantaire watching them both with something that seems close to baffled amusement and maybe something fond and affectionate. She's tempted, almost, to lean over and smooth down his hair with a snarky comment, but he'd appreciate it even less than Gavroche, so she settles for commenting on the film.

When he's inhaled about half of his meal, Bahorel joins in, and it only takes until the first major fight scene for Grantaire to mutter something derisive that makes Bahorel laugh. By the end of it, he's laughing a little and grinning at their comments, occasionally, hesitantly joining in, like he doesn't want to pass some unspoken boundary.

It's probably the quietest film night she's ever had with Grantaire around, and she's not counting when he stayed earlier in the week because it's not the same. It doesn't matter that half his comments normally go over most of their heads, she misses them, long and rambling and pun filled as they are.

They get through two films before Bahorel calls it a night - he has to be up early, for once, and he looks about as pleased as he does when he, for some reason, actually has to go to class. He complains loudly as he helps them tidy up, not that there's much to do, and tugs them both in for hugs. He hesitates, a moment, like he wants to hug R again or something else, but refrains, and apparently it's not just her, before he sweeps back out into the night with a last loud laugh.

When the door closes, Grantaire looks up at her (and he only barely needs to). "So, what happens now?"

She shrugs. "We try to get some sleep, I guess."

He snorts and rolls his eyes. "I mean, what if I change back tonight? What if I don't?"

Éponine studies him, meets his eyes evenly. "If you do, then it happens and you can hide out here if you want. If not, then we'll figure out what the plan for tomorrow is. No one's going to be horribly disappointed or anything, either way."

"Yeah, but still," he mutters, like he doesn't quite believe it, and looks down at the floor. "Well. If I - I mean, me-me, not older-me - don't get a chance, thanks, again. To all of you. This kinda sucked, but also not?"

"High praise," she says, utterly dry, but smiles a moment later, fewer sharp edges to it than usual, and reaches out to clasp his shoulder shortly, bony under her touch. "Hey. You're welcome. It really wasn't a bother for any of us."

He doesn't look convinced, at all, but he smiles at her, and thanks her. Éponine lets him get ready for bed while she goes off to do the same, and she wonders what he's wanted to say that he won't because he doesn't think they'll listen, that they'll care. And she should be sleeping, now, but she can't help slipping back out into the silently living room and leaning on the back of the couch.

Grantaire is, surprisingly, already asleep, blanket tangled around himself, and Éponine sighs softly. She doesn't reach down to smooth out his fluff of curls or adjust the blankets, but she says, very quietly, what she wishes someone had told her when she was fourteen and scared and lost.

"It gets better, kid," she says. "You'll figure it out, and you don't even have to do it alone."

Then she runs her fingers through her hair, watches just one more moment, and turns to go to bed.

 

 

Waking comes over Grantaire slowly, roused from sleep in a lull between dreams, like there’s something off that he’s just now noticing. He blinks, slowly, the room dark like it’s the middle of the night, and it takes him a moment to remember that he’s sleeping on Éponine’s couch, going to rub at his eyes and go back to sleep when he pauses.

It takes another moment to realize what’s off, and his brain scrambles around it for a moment, trying to decide if “oh, I grew up” or “oh, I’m back to normal” is more accurate, but either way, it has him fully awake. The memories line up and slot back together surprisingly easily, going from a splitting headache on the way home to the last week and, fuck.

He sits up, dragging tangled curls back from his face, and then – and then, honestly, he really doesn’t know what to do.

Because part of him is spiraling, panic digging claws into the base of his spine, his chest, his stomach, threatening to pry apart his ribs. And part of him is dreading the fact that they’re going to want to _talk_ , and he isn’t entirely sure if it’s worse if they’re going to want to talk about his younger self’s shitty, fucked up views on all the things they care about or if they’re going to try to be _nice_. And he really, really doesn’t know what to _do_ with all of this.

Grantaire sighs and scrubs his fingers through his hair again. Staying still is just not going to work.

Silently, he rises and folds up Éponine’s blankets, leaving them on the couch. He finds his clothes from, shit, more than a week ago at the bottom of his bag and slips them on. The clock in the kitchen informs him that it’s only three, so he’s careful not to make a sound as he takes a pen and leaves her a note, cursive curving easily as he writes, thanking her again and letting her know, only hesitating a moment before adding a note asking if she minds calling a meeting at about noon. Because he has to talk to them, and it’s not that he’s _avoiding_ them, he just… honestly, Grantaire needs a fucking break to get his head on something like straight.

He slips out of the flat silently, not wanting to wake her, and sighs again, debating. But there’s not much debate, really, and he heads down a silent street, hunched into his sweatshirt. It’s dark out, and quiet, and he avoids the streets that will still be loud and lit at this time of night. Paris is a ghost now, burned bitter cold with winter and prickling with the threat of storms in the morning, and Grantaire settles into it, letting the streets wind him in like a lure. The pavement is hard and familiar under his feet, and the anxiety drains out of him, pulled out by the comforting and well known sounds around him. This, at least, hasn’t changed.

He doesn’t pass many people, but he knows the ones who move like they’ve something to hide, something that even the dark streets can’t cloak, and the ones who walk like they’re lost, like they’re searching for something that’s just out of sight, and well, that just proves he’s in good company.

Not for the first time, Grantaire is struck by how amazing his friends are. They’re tricky bastards, and he’s not exactly thrilled about the ways some of them had pushed because he doesn’t talk about things for a _reason_ , but they’re wonderful people, and he’s grateful for them. He really is, and he’s filled with another burst of affection for all that they’ve _done_ for him, even when he’s been a frankly kind of obnoxious teenager. And there’s Musichetta, who he adores, who somehow knew the right thing to say – though he’d have to hope so, after all this time.

And then. And then there’s Enjolras, and Grantaire suddenly _misses_ him like aching, suddenly aware of everything complicated and difficult and wonderful about the way they fit together in a way he wasn’t before. Still strange, still upset, because, shit, he doesn’t know how this changes things, and he doesn’t know how he could see him and not feel _everything_ , but he’s that much more grateful for what they have now, how starkly it stands out from when they first met, the way that lofty, pitying curl of his smirk had softened and eased into the quiet smile that Grantaire has learned to read.

But for now… but for now he’s still all tied up in knots, still struggling to understand why and how things suddenly make so much more and so much less sense. He feels like he’s been stripped bare in front of them, now that they’ve seen the way he cringed and flinched and fidgeted. Grantaire, for all he’s so much more secure in their love and their friendship than he was years ago, still instinctually shrinks a bit at the thought that they know how hard he _tried_ and how badly he failed to not be so loud and irritating all the time, because it’s easier to pretend that he just doesn’t realize how obnoxious it is.

His thoughts tangle and run into one another, and he’s been walking for an hour and a half before it finally starts to take the edge off the anger and frustration and panic. He knows that he’s imposed more than enough, this week, but the creeping nausea of not having taken his medication is starting to gnaw at his stomach, and he knows Joly always keeps a back up of his prescription in the cabinet and that they won’t mind (Musichetta knows the sound of him slipping into her bedroom better than anything, by now, but Grantaire knows the same). He just doesn’t think he can handle going home right now, not just yet.

It takes a while to make his way back over to their apartment, but by the time he gets there, he’s starting to get cold with just his sweatshirt and hat, and he grumbles under his breath, silently letting himself in and slipping off his shoes by the door, setting down his bag. Like he thought, there’s a container in the back of the medicine cabinet with his prescription in it. Grantaire should probably be concerned that his best friends keep extra doses of his antidepressants around, but he’s mostly just thankful because shit happens sometimes.

Joly’s cat blinks sleepily at him from her perch on the dresser when he slips into the bedroom and Grantaire scratches under her chin. The three of them are tangled up under the sheets and clinging to one another, Bossuet squished in between Joly and Musichetta. Amused, he smiles at that, shaking his head a little before sliding in behind Joly.

He stirs a little, blinking sleepily over his shoulder, then smiles slowly but brightly. “R, you’re back.”

“Mm-hm,” he agrees, returning the smile.

“ ‘M glad,” he mumbles, then gropes for Grantaire’s hand, pulling it closer so he can hug his arm, still half asleep. “C’mere and go t’sleep.”

It’s an effort of will not to laugh, but he simply curls closer around Joly, who cuddles back against him, and it takes surprisingly little time to fall asleep.

Of course, he sleeps lightly, and it doesn’t take more than Musichetta reaching over to steal his hand from Joly to wake him, and he gives her a half-awake, sleepy smile. “Hey there.”

“Hey,” she says, smiling back, still blinking awake. “You came over here?”

“Needed to think,” he replies, shrugging. “Besides, Enjolras has a fifty-fifty chance of being at Combeferre or Courfeyrac’s.”

She nods and stifles a yawn, curling around Bossuet a little more. “Hey, R?”

“Yeah?”

“Your parents are dicks,” she says, as bluntly as ever, squeezing his hand. “Also we love you.”

He sighs, because that’s an old argument, but squeezes back. “I love you too.”

When Joly and Bossuet stir, they shift, tugging him into the middle of the pile and Grantaire complains half-heartedly, returning all of their cuddles and affection. He doesn’t mention the fact that they’re a little clingy, mostly because he’s missed this, the casualness of their affection.

It’s possible that Musichetta may have a point about his parents.

But that doesn’t matter, because he has all of them and he doesn’t think he can explain how much they – all of them, but particularly these three, Musichetta and Bossuet and Joly – mean to him. He knows he doesn’t have words for it, so he just hugs them tighter and then jokes about them dragging him further into their bed, and Bossuet makes a crack about octopuses. By the time it’s just become a series of increasingly reaching puns, Grantaire’s anxiety and fretting have melted most of the way away, the way that always seems to happen with them.

Eventually, he settles down, Musichetta’s head on his chest as he leans back against Joly and Bossuet as they tangle together, his fingers smoothing knots out of her long hair. “Alright, so. How is everyone, really?”

Bossuet hums, thoughtful. “I think we’re all okay. Mostly people were just worried about how you were dealing with everything, you know. Enjolras seems less stressed out and…”

“Agitated?” Musichetta offers, and Joly snorts.

“Distraught, overwrought, distressed.”

“Pining,” the two of them chorus, unable to keep straight faces.

“… All of that,” Bossuet says, sounding amused, “after you guys talked. Except for the pining. He’s been pining.”

Musichetta snickers. “He was wearing one of your sweaters.”

Grantaire turns red, shaking his head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Which you will in a few hours, if Éponine’s text is anything to go by!” Joly says, cheerful as ever. “We’re meeting at the Musain at half past noon. Well, you all are, I have to work.”

“Which means that there’s only so long before we have to go, which means that you should make us breakfast,” Bossuet says, tugging lightly on one of Grantaire’s curls, laughing when he’s batted away.

“Alright, alright,” Grantaire agrees, kissing cheeks and foreheads as he untangles himself from their pile, finding himself humming in easy contentment as he heads out into the kitchen, pouring a drink with a sigh and raiding the refrigerator for supplies for breakfast.

Surprisingly, Musichetta is the first one out, and she stops him with a hand on her arm, and there’s something in her eyes that makes Grantaire’s chest clench.

“I’m really, really glad you’re alright,” she says. “No jokes, okay? Don’t laugh me off this time, R. I’m glad you’re okay.”

He is quiet for a moment, because his first instinct _is_ to turn it into a joke, but she knows what he was like as a teenager, and it’s still hard for him not to dismiss it as him being overdramatic and angsty even though he knows, now, that he’s always been depressed. But she was there. He pulls her into his arms and hugs her tightly, smiling a little when she hugs him back.

“I know,” he says back, just as quietly. “I know. And thank you.”

She smiles, flicking his nose when she pulls back. “They aren’t my secrets to tell, sweetheart. Now, what’re you making?”

“Crêpes, because after this week, we deserve them,” he says, and smiles again when she laughs and leans against the counter to chat. They catch him up over breakfast, fill him in on what everyone has been up to and what he’s missed, and Grantaire can almost pretend he was out of town for a little over a week instead of having been turned into a teenager, crashing vulnerably, defenselessly into their lives.

Eventually, though, he heads out, promising to meet up with them later, because he does, against all appearances, hate to impose. But he still doesn’t want to go home.

His thoughts circle the tangled up feelings about depression and anxiety and the sudden and strange realization of how far he’s come, how much all the painful, sluggish steps have _helped_ , how much less difficult it is now. And then there’s the roiling mess of feelings about drinking, about the slow growing thought, now, that maybe he wants to try to stop, for good, because that was never where he wanted to end up. But he can’t say that yet, can’t commit to it, needs to figure out what all of this means, but he thinks, for once, that maybe he deserves better, doesn’t deserve to have been led toward that trap at all, regardless of his own responsibility in it all.

He ends up wandering for a while, lines his pockets with iron, and then sits to read on a low wall, sprawling out on his back as he does. It’s only when it’s nearing time that he heads for the Café Musain, trying to wrap his head around the fact that only a little more than a week ago, he woke up in the alley over there and recognized none of the streets he knows so well.

When he walks in, Floréal looks up and smiles warmly at him, her hijab a fetching shade of rich green. “R, it’s nice to see you back to yourself.”

He blinks at that. “Wait, you-”

She scoffs, giving him her usual unimpressed look. “Well, I didn’t realize it at first, but your friends are nowhere near as subtle or as clever as they like to think they are.”

He laughs, walking over to buy something to drink, grinning at her. “Well, then. It’s nice to see you as well. How’s the banker boyfriend?”

“Very well, thank you,” she says, primly, making up his coffee, her dark eyes amused and fond. “Still a capitalist cog in the system.”

“Ah, yes, but he dotes on you, so I’ll concede he has some redeeming features,” Grantaire teases, to make her laugh and because he does feel bad about being so rude about it in the first place, and accepts his drink with a smile, waving and promising to catch up soon, and heads for the stairs.

When he pushes open the door, they’re more or less all there, and it feels eerily like the first day he showed up when he was small. There’s a chorus of surprised and pleased and relieved noises, but Grantaire only has eyes for Enjolras, who rises the moment he sees him. Setting down his cup, he walks forward, uncertain and hesitating just a little, because this must have changed things, and he doesn’t know.

Enjolras’ expression is still quiet, still a little troubled, and his brow pinches a little. It takes Grantaire a moment to realize that he’s _concerned_ and unsure, and feels a burst of affection and adoration for this ridiculous man, and grins at him with all the force of love and devotion and _amazement_ that bubbles up in his chest. Enjolras’ quiet smile lights up his blue eyes, makes them shine with the same things, and it takes Grantaire’s breath away.

After a moment, Enjolras holds his hands out, palms up, still silent. A little confused but trusting, he places his own hands lightly in Enjolras’, and blushes when the man draws them up, brushing kisses to the backs of his knuckles and to the birthmark splashing over his thumb and forefinger.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, soft enough that only Grantaire can hear.

“I missed you too,” he says back, just as quietly, as he pulls their hands toward him, and smiles at the blush that rises on Enjolras’ cheeks when he kisses the backs of his fingers gently. “Nine and a half days worth in one morning.”

That gets a huff, somewhere between disbelieving and amused, but then Enjolras just smiles, just a little, and Grantaire can see the weight falling from his shoulders. They let go and step back, and Grantaire turns to the rest of them.

“Sooooo. Can I hug you, or?” Bahorel asks, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, pulling the larger man into a tight hug, and he’s really not surprised when getting hugged back lifts him off his feet.

They’re all a little cautious in making sure it’s alright before they touch him, which Grantaire appreciates and resents all at once, and just settles for sweeping them all in for hugs, thanking each of them quietly until he gets to Combeferre, who squeezes his shoulder once more before letting him straighten. Which leaves him looking over to Courfeyrac, who looks concerned and upset and apologetic.

Grantaire steps closer, and studies him for a moment before smiling.

“Seriously, I promise I’m not pissed off and that we’re okay,” he says, gently, and then pauses, letting himself go serious as he continues, expression flat. “But if you _ever_ do that to anyone _ever_ again, I will be first in line to punch you out.”

“I hope you will,” Courfeyrac says, just as seriously, and then can’t quite manage his weak smile. “But, for what it’s worth, I won’t do it again. I’ve learned my lesson, and I _am_ sorry.”

“I just told you it’s okay,” Grantaire tells him, and then pulls him in for a tight, reassuring hug, relieved when Courfeyrac hugs him back even tighter than usual.

They all end up sitting, and talking a little, asking questions like they want to ensure he's alright. But eventually, people start glancing at their watches and once Éponine heads out with a last affectionate clasp of his shoulder, they start making excuses. Cosette and Marius both hug him surprisingly hard, and Grantaire hugs them back, grinning at the looks on their faces and their pleased blushes when he quietly tells them they'd make good parents. Bahorel's hug is even harder, and he's all but wrapping himself around Grantaire, trying to say something without words. Actually, a lot of their hugs feel protective, even Courfeyrac's, now that he's loosened up, and Jehan kisses his cheeks with a quiet look in his eyes, and Combeferre eyes both Grantaire and Enjolras with concern.

And even though people are still filtering out and chatting to the last minute, Grantaire turns to Enjolras and asks, "Do you want to come home with me?"

He nods, and offers out a hand again, still reserved, still not quite sure. Grantaire can't help a smile at that, going to tiptoe and pulling Enjolras down enough that he can kiss his forehead, taking his hand. "Let's go."

Enjolras twines his fingers with Grantaire's as they step off the stairs, and they don't really talk on the way back to his apartment, because they really don't need to, just yet. And he needs this, this little piece of something normal because he doesn't want to talk it out until the restless worry settles down again.

When they reach the door, he slips out his key and lets them in, not sure how or why the sight of his cramped apartment floods him with affection as soon he’s placed an iron nail over the door, just to be safe. It's cleaner than he'd expected and Enjolras, at his side, flushes ever so faintly when Grantaire says as much.

"I came over to tidy up," he admits. "So your neighbors wouldn't get too suspicious, and... well, I missed you."

"I'm sorry," Grantaire tells him, because he can see the lines of it in Enjolras' face and his shoulders, the slight slump of exhaustion and weariness.

But Enjolras just shakes his head and gives him a slightly severe look that says he's being ridiculous for apologizing, and draws him into his arms. Grantaire starts a bit, but latches on before Enjolras can pull away, wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his face against the taller man's shoulder. He can hear his heartbeat, feel the warmth of him so close, and he feels settled in a way that he hasn't in a while, the restraint of not _melting_ into every hug and touch fading.

Enjolras holds him closer, so close that it should be painful, with passion and something like desperation, nuzzling against his temple a little despite the fact that he must be getting a face full of curls, and sighs, letting himself feel all the emotions he must have been holding down all week.

They stand like that for a long minute, and they started rocking side-to-side a little, barely noticeably, sometime when Grantaire didn't register. When they break apart, he doesn't protest Enjolras' hands curving around his jaw, just leans into his touch and kisses his palm, sighing when Enjolras' thumb smooths over the broad plane of his cheekbones.

"May I hold you for a while?" he asks. "It doesn't need to be anything more, and I understand if you're still feeling a little overwhelmed or simply don't want to, but I would like to."

Grantaire blinks at him, placing his hand over one of the other man's. "Of course you can. I mean, _please_ , I want you to, please, but... You don't have to ask, you know."

"I know," Enjolras says, seriously. "But we don't know how this works, or what aftereffects you might be feeling. And I know that _you_ feel comfortable telling me no, and I appreciate that, but as a fourteen-year-old, you didn't seem to know you could have personal boundaries or consent, and I wanted to be sure. And I didn't know if..."

It takes him a moment, and then he smiles with amused, fond exasperation. "Enjolras... Briefly regressing to my fourteen-year-old body and my then shitty and homophobic opinions hasn't changed anything, not now, not on my end. And I can still tell you no. But right now, will you please come to bed and hold me for a while?"

"Of course," he says, reluctantly letting go of Grantaire's face in favor of his hand, like he's concerned he'll vanish if he lets go. "Of course."

It takes them almost no time at all to get back to the bedroom and stripped down to t-shirts and underwear. If there's a vaguely Enjolras shaped rumple on the covers, neither of them mention it when they pull them back to climb in, laying front to front with their legs hooked around one another.

Curling around Grantaire not quite possessively, Enjolras kisses his forehead and holds tighter. "I'm glad you're home."

"I'm glad, too," Grantaire replies, kissing Enjolras' shoulder, warm and feeling ridiculously _centered_ now that they're curled up like this, bedroom warm and dimly lit up with hazy light through the open shutters, the faint, rolling sounds of thunder filtering in from a distance.

Enjolras sighs again, resting their foreheads together and closing his eyes, like he's trying to memorize all of this. “I was worried about you. Combeferre mentioned what Joly told him.”

“About the drinking?” Grantaire can’t bring himself to be angry about that, or even defensive, and just sighs. “Yeah. I dunno, Enjolras. You just get used to seeing it. My parents had no problem with me drinking, and I didn’t realize how big of a problem it was. It helped make everything less _crushing_ , a little less overwhelming. Now? Yeah, that was pretty fucked up.”

“But not your fault,” Enjolras says, still holding him comfortably close. “I’m sorry it seemed like the only option, though. Your parents…”

“My parents?” he prompts, feeling a slight, creeping dread, because he never knows what to say about them.

“Combeferre mentioned that what happened had largely to do with your mother’s wishes?” He phrases it as a question, though Grantaire knows it’s what he and Combeferre had agreed on, not wanting to give the full details, and he’s even more painfully grateful for it now, couldn’t say it if it were anyone other than Enjolras asking.

He sighs, and shrugs. “Yeah. My mother wished I could be my younger, apparently less terrible self, or something along those lines. Don’t look like that, Enjolras, I’ve disappointed her since the day I was born. She just gave up on me eventually, probably about the time I started making decisions and refusing to back down. Everything since then’s just been one more to add to the pile. The boy she wanted back never really existed.”

He’s not prepared for the way Enjolras tenses up at that, anger sparking in his eyes, but he just sighs and holds Grantaire a little closer still, amazingly gentle as he kisses the top of his head.

“You’re never a disappointment to us,” he says, so strident and so confident that Grantaire almost actually believes him. “She’s so very wrong about you.”

“I promise, these aren’t new issues,” Grantaire sighs, but relaxes all the same. “But thank you.”

“Mm-hm,” Enjolras hums, but doesn’t seem entirely convinced. "All the same, is everything alright?"

"Hm? Oh. Yeah." Grantaire rubs a circle in Enjolras' hip with a thumb, closing his eyes as well, not tired but soaking in the sense of _familiar_ and _his_. "I'm fine. I mean... my brain is still catching up, but I'm okay. You guys were amazing. I owe you all so much. How you didn't get fed up with my bullshit, I'll never know. I was an obnoxious teenager."

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, shifting to look at him, a furrow to his brow and a quiet frown on his face. "You _weren't_. I mean, yes, you had some uninformed opinions, but you were hardly _obnoxious_. And of _course_ we took care of you - you're our friend, you mean so much to all of us."

He sighs. "I know, I know. You guys care. And I really do appreciate it, because our friends are all amazing. We have the best friends. But... Enjolras, I know I wasn't the greatest kid, okay? I've always been bad at being quiet, and I'm miserable with communicating at the best of times. And some of the shit I said was really out of line."

"And when it was, people told you that," Enjolras says, and then kisses his forehead fiercely. Grantaire had never considered applying that word to the usually gentle, affectionate gesture, but Enjolras' brow is furrowed slightly in the way that suggests he's taking something seriously, and his eyes have that same familiar spark. He smooths back some of Grantaire's curls, and sighs. "I promise, you weren't any trouble. You have nothing to apologize to us for. And even if you had been difficult, Grantaire, you were a teenager. You weren't _aware_ of what you are now, your neurological development wasn't finished, we could hardly act as if it were you as you are now saying those things."

Grantaire chuckles at that, still continuing his affectionate, reassuring touch, rubbing circles in Enjolras' hip. "I've only been back a few hours and already, you're speechifying."

"I had a lot of things I wanted to say to you, but couldn't, so they've been building up," he replies softly, no accusation in his tone, and he really does look pained, ever so slightly. "But you're here again. May I kiss you?"

In response, he tips his face for a better angle, settling as Enjolras leans in to kiss him, kissing back and letting himself go pliant under the gentle press of the other man's mouth, soft and still relatively chaste, gentle and surprisingly tender.

He's blushing, he knows, when they break apart, and shifts forward to catch another, reluctant to stop, now, with the way Enjolras relaxes into it, lets out a faint hum of contentment, and bumps their noses together when they finally part again. They trade a few more kisses, mouths brushing against one another, over skin, over brows and eyelids and cheeks and jaws and fingertips and palms and back again, slowly shifting until Grantaire finds his head tucked under Enjolras' chin, pressed into the intimately familiar scent of his shirt and chest.

Enjolras' long fingers are gentle and careful as he sifts through Grantaire's tossed and tussled curls, and he still has an arm wrapped around him, holding him close as though he's trying to press him near enough that their heartbeats will beat in a complementary pattern. For long minutes, they stay there, Grantaire content to linger like this and breathe in the smell of Enjolras and his apartment, to listen to his breathing and pulse, to let him touch and hold and surround him with this affection he's been _craving_.

"You're really alright?" Enjolras murmurs, eventually. "I know you must be tired of me asking, but... this feels so strange, to have you back."

"No kidding," Grantaire mumbles, and nuzzles against his jaw in reassurance. "Yes, I'm alright, I promise. I'll try my best to let you know what I need. I just… there’s a lot I need to think through. But are you okay? All of you seem really, really jumpy."

"Mm." He falls quiet for a moment, fingernails dragging briefly and pleasantly over Grantaire's scalp. "We are, I believe. But concerned about you. For you. Don't be surprised if it takes us a while to get back to normal, to stop being careful. And I also wouldn't be surprised if our efforts focus on child abuse awareness for a while."

"What the fuck." Grantaire half sits up at that, instinctively pulling back, confused and irritated, eyebrows drawing together. "Enjolras, what the fuck. Yeah, my family wasn’t always _great_ , fine, whatever, but I wasn't abused."

Enjolras sits up and looks so deeply pained for a moment that Grantaire softens, lets the other man draw him back down on the bed, still half sitting against the pillows and the wall. "I... I don't want to dictate the terms you use or how you should consider yourself. But we weren't comfortable with the way your family treated you, R. It unnerved all of us, seeing you flinch and startle, and seeing how uncertain you were with affection, always expecting everything to have a cost, how you made yourself stay as silent and still as you could. And I won't try to talk you into seeing it that way, if you don't want me to, but even so, it was troubling and upsetting enough that some of us are going to want to help others avoiding having to feel that way."

Grantaire sighs, giving up and giving in for the moment, huffing in discontentment as he curls up against Enjolras again. “It’s not really that big of a deal, you know. I’ve always tended to take things too personally. But alright, I won’t be surprised if you all do.”

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Enjolras murmurs, arm curling around Grantaire more firmly, going back to petting down his hair with that fierce note in his voice again, touch gentle but still somehow irate. “If you’re more empathetic than usual, they should have been more careful, more aware.”

He just hums, softly, at that, because it’s not worth arguing, and he tries to relax back into his touch, but he can tell that something is still bothering him, still has him upset. Grantaire shifts, hand curling around the back of Enjolras’ neck, slipping under the fall of curls to rest on smooth skin, leaning up to kiss him gently, look tender and troubled. “Hey. What’s got you so worked up? I can tell you’re upset about more than just that, Enjolras.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, surprisingly, leaning into Grantaire’s touch, looking faintly distressed as his eyes soften. “For the way I used to treat you. I’m sorry for all the times I snapped at you and told you to be quiet and not to talk anymore. It was wrong of me.”

Grantaire moves again, ignoring Enjolras’ quiet, unhappy sound, and brushes his knuckles along the line of his jaw, confused and worried now. “I know you are; we’ve talked about it. Enjolras, you haven’t done that in months, it’s alright.”

“It isn’t,” Enjolras protests, closing his eyes, and quiet anguish and stubbornness line his face. “Grantaire, this last week… Watching you curl inward and shut down every time you thought you were talking too much, the way you tracked everyone else speaking but never felt like you could add to the conversation, how you would sit there and try to make all your words fit in a neat, short line, trying not to fidget… it was painful to see. And I can only imagine how it must have felt, to have me constantly chastising you when we first met. Now, I appreciate how intelligent you are, the way you weave words together and make connections so quickly it can be difficult to follow, and I hope you _know_ that I appreciate it, that I love that about you, but all the same, I’m sorry.”

He aches at that, pressing soothing, soft kisses along his jaw, his cheeks. “I forgave you for that a long time ago, okay? Don’t start feeling bad about it again, because you stopped. Alright? I love you, and I trust you, and I’m starting to believe that you really do think all those things about me. That you’re here is… it more than makes up for everything we put each other through.”

Enjolras makes a displeased noise, but is apparently pacified somewhat by Grantaire’s kisses, slumping further into the bed and his touch. “All the same, I am sorry. The thought that I’ve done the same thing as your family…”

Grantaire shakes his head, reaching for Enjolras’ hands, cradling them in his own. “I promise, it’s different. You’re different.”

Pressing their foreheads together, he tries to school his expression, fighting for the right words to fill the silence that’s settled in between them, to explain.

“Musichetta’s been telling me for years that the way my parents treat me isn’t okay,” he says, finally, running his thumbs over the back of Enjolras’ hands. “And I guess, yeah, I can kind of agree with that, or at least I’m getting there. Because, honestly, all of you have shown me that maybe I don’t entirely deserve to be spoken to like that, that maybe the things I do are worth doing.

“But… and here’s the thing, I can’t really call it abuse. If it is, maybe it’s not. Because, yes, I _know_ you think it’s bullshit, but that comes with a lot of implications that I’d have to deal with. And even more than all of the cultural associations that are jammed in my brain, I don’t care how wrong they are, they’re there, so please just don’t, if I say… if I say that I am, that it was, that means I have to recontextualize everything. Everything about them, and me, and the way I grew up. And maybe that would mean my entire view of myself, my abilities, and the whole system I use to judge myself falls apart and I don’t have time for the whole fucking Oresteia, okay? I just don’t have the energy. I have to question _everything_ if I do that, and that’s fucking terrifying. That’s not something that I can do right now, and it makes me feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it. But I can… at this point, I can say that some of the things they did and said were wrong, weren’t okay. Maybe I’ll get the rest of it eventually, but that’s a huge step, and I just can’t believe that right now.”

“I understand,” Enjolras says, and squeezes Grantaire’s hands, kissing his forehead, comforting. He still looks sad, sorrowful, but also softer, full of adoration and respect, and it hurts but in the best way, to know that Enjolras has faith in him too. “Alright? I won’t push, and I respect your choices in categorizing your experiences. I know it’s been hard for you to get to this point, with everything. For the record, I agree with Musichetta, and if you want to talk about it, I will always, always be here to do so, but I won’t push. Also, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Grantaire says, holding tighter and closing his eyes, because this is exhausting and draining and important and just on the edge of overwhelming. It’s been a whirlwind of a week, full of so many whiplash cycles of emotions, and it’s starting to dig into him, little spikes of too much hooking into his skin and his bones.

Enjolras seems to notice, kissing him softly, full and lingering, eyes surprisingly open and gentle when Grantaire meets them again. “Alright?”

“Mmn, yeah,” he murmurs. “Just tired. We’re meeting up at Courfeyrac’s tomorrow, right? Movies and food and awkward conversations?”

“And piles of affection, yes,” he agrees, nodding as though he understands just how _tired_ Grantaire is. “As long as you’re alright with that.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, with a laugh, and kisses Enjolras’ wrists. “Would you stay tonight, though? I just… I’d like your company, if you’re free. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Of course I’ll stay,” he says immediately, face shaded faintly red from the affectionate kisses, pressing closer and seeming almost relieved. “I know it’s nothing compared to what you’ve had to deal with all week, but I _have_ missed you. It was… difficult.”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire says, grin slowly growing even as he feels himself starting to blush as well. “You _were_ pining.”

Even as Enjolras turns a deeper shade of red, he sniffs like a huffy, offended cat. “I was _not_ pining, I just missed you.”

Grantaire laughs, and then softens because the way Enjolras’ eyes light up at that is staggering. He settles for leaning in for another kiss, just as chaste and gentle as the previous ones. “I missed you, too. I missed this.”

Enjolras can’t even pretend to be irritated by Grantaire’s amusement, that much is clear, and he smiles, affectionate. “Then there are no objections to me holding you a while longer?”

“None at all,” he assures Enjolras, unable to help smiling back, the last knots of anxiety that have strung him up unraveling and easing. It’s still too near, too hard to ask for more than that, but he curls up willingly with the taller man, kissing his shoulder as they snuggle in under the covers.

Enjolras, though, seems to know, to understand what Grantaire just isn’t comfortable asking for, because his kisses are soft reassurances of his love and his presence, and his fingers thread and comb gently through his curls, and it’s warm, and close, and comforting.

He doesn’t know how to put into words how it feels to be back, to be home, how much he _loves_ him, how grateful he is for everything that they have, and he doesn’t know how to ask or offer comfort. And he knows that they’ll have to talk about all of this, and that he’ll have to talk with his friends and the conversations will be awkward and painful, and he knows, too, that he’s probably going to get fed up and frustrated and panicked and will go hide in the city for a day or two while they tiptoe around him and tease out their discomforts and concerns because he’s shitty at dealing with his emotions sometimes. There’s still so much to _process_ , so much to make sense of, without even touching on the whole fae bits.

“I love you,” he says, softly, because it can’t be said enough.

That earns another smile from Enjolras, eyes warm. “I love you too, Grantaire.”

Grinning helplessly at that, he ducks his face in against Enjolras’ shoulder, unable to help the swell of emotion and affection.

And now, he’s _home_. And for now, Grantaire focuses on the feeling of Enjolras warm and curled up around him, the sound of rain on the windows and the smell of it, the thunder and the familiar noises of the city and the flat, and just settles in against him, puts the rest out of his mind, and savors this.


End file.
